


While I Breathe, I Hope

by Le_Creationist



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), SPECTRE (2015), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom, Spooks | MI-5
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Backstory, Brooding M, Character Development, Crossover, Drama, F/M, Flashbacks, Romance, Self-Doubt, Slow Burn, Smut, Spies & Secret Agents, Terrorism, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2016-01-20
Packaged: 2018-05-04 07:50:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 47,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5326412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Le_Creationist/pseuds/Le_Creationist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A crossover romance.  After Blofeld's demise, Gareth Mallory finds himself reflecting on the past and encounters an old friend: Rosalind Myers, MI5’s new Counterterrorism chief.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> After seeing Spectre, I couldn't help feeling sorry for Mallory. I'm a big fan of the series Spooks (MI-5 in America), thus I couldn't help forming headcanons about Gareth Mallory and senior MI5 officer Ros Myers. I wanted to write a spy romance and this is the result!
> 
> For those unfamiliar with the character Rosalind Myers from Spooks (played by the wonderful Hermione Norris), she is a former MI-6 intelligence officer who was seconded to MI5 counterintelligence. I think she'd be a compelling match for Gareth Mallory. The following is a short bio for her: http://www.bbc.co.uk/spooks/characters/rosmyers.shtml. It doesn't really do her justice but it gives you an idea of her in case you haven't seen the show.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes even those at the top struggle with the reality of their positions. Gareth Mallory finds it only too easy to assume the identity of M, a fact that scares him more than he cares to admit. A sorely missed face disrupts his moping, and he's thrown back to memories of 20 years past.

 

_Bullfight critics ranked in rows_

_Crowd the enormous Plaza full;_

_But he's the only one who knows-_

_And he's the man who fights the bull._

-Domingo Ortega

* * *

 

It was an uncommon thing to enjoy a meal in silence at the restaurant not too far from his flat. Far better, he mused, to be here rather than try to ignore the silence of his empty home. The hum of conversation from other tables was enough to quieten his churning mind.

He found it was easier than he expected to be invisible, as M. As a politician, he'd faced his share of media intrusion in his life. He'd been harassed by protesters and political opponents alike throughout his time as a civil servant. As head of MI6, he kept a much lower profile. He supposed he was less interesting than his predecessor. Gareth Mallory appeared to be an unassuming middle-aged man without vices or dirty laundry to air, and this was enough to divert unwanted attention from the press toward more salacious targets. If ever there was a requisite characteristic for the country’s top spook, wasn’t it the ability to hide in plain sight?

His hands shook slightly as he sliced into his steak. The events of the past few months were catching up to him. The fact that he somehow kept his job and that the 00 program remained intact astounded him. He wouldn't have dared predict this outcome before discovering Max Denbigh's treachery. It sickened him to remember his part in Denbigh's death no matter how complicit the younger man was in Spectre's crimes. He stared balefully at his food, his appetite nonexistent.

He remembered all too well the conversation in Denbigh's sleek office after the Nine Eyes vote in Tokyo. Human intelligence. The gathering of facts, the analysis and interpretation, and the calculated actions taken from it--all of it was vital to their trade. The tech was always a means to an end, not the end in itself. What fragile system of checks and balances existed in the traditional sense would surely perish given the undiluted power Nine Eyes bestowed. He stood by his conviction, even if his younger, savvier counterparts would condemn him as a relic for doing so. 

_'Have you ever killed a man? You have to look him in the eye, and be sure. All the drones, bugs, and surveillance in the world can't tell you what to do.'_

He was indeed certain as he watched Denbigh plummet to his death. That sort of primitive justice was as burdensome as it was viciously satisfying. It was a side of himself he didn't care to indulge. Politics and intelligence at his clearance level insulated him from the violence he’d faced as a military officer. There was no denying that the encounter stirred memories of his army days. It slipped through his mental defences, a cold and sombre reminder of his past. He closed his eyes tightly and was glad that he chose the seat facing the wood-panelled wall.

The restaurant door opened and cold air immediately blew in as someone entered. He sighed. He supposed the rare solitude couldn't last forever and resigned himself to finishing his supper and going home soon after. A quiet rustling at his side startled him out of his thoughts. His eyes flew open when a woman spoke at a distance far closer than anticipated.

"A meal alone does not a celebration make." Her familiar lilt affected him more than he cared to admit. The thrill of recognition warred with disbelief as he turned toward her. The restaurant's dull interior seemed to sharpen into focus as he took in her presence. She lowered herself onto the wooden chair from the adjacent table and moved it close in one smooth movement. Her poise was impeccable as always.

"And what should I be celebrating?" Gareth kept his tone equally light. He set down his fork and knife and sat up in his chair.

"I heard news of an arrest you made on behalf of Her Majesty’s government. After the end of a rather spectacular helicopter accident on the Westminster bridge." Of course Rosalind Myers was tuned into that stream of information, no matter where she may have been in the world. Last he’d heard, she’d taken on a covert assignment in Russia. The sight of her here made him wonder if perhaps he’d gone mad or if his wine was laced with something to tamper with his faculties.

He shrugged despite his racing pulse, glancing down at the table. "You know very well who was responsible for the preceding mayhem." He then made to examine the mundane items scattered about the white tablecloth, the flickering candle and the wilting flower in the small vase next to it. After a moment he looked up and met her gaze again.

The annoyance in his remark prompted her to laugh softly. She had enough in common with her former colleague to appreciate the humour above all else. "Bond never fails to disappoint. The fact of the matter is that under your leadership in a very challenging time, a terrible player is now off the grid."

His throat swelled with sudden emotion. Had it really been three years? In their profession, three years could feel like three decades. Her blonde hair was shorter than he remembered. She still looked like she was cut from marble, striking and cold, yet the warmth in her eyes shone past that. She was dangerous in more ways than one; he would not be deceived into thinking anything else. He studied the new lines on her face, her forehead and at the corners of her mouth. It went without saying that her stress levels on the job contributed to them. Even so, the years were far kinder to her than to him.

"Cutting off the head of the beast is one thing, dealing with what remains is another. You know this." He shifted in his seat, seized by the need to do something other than stare at her like a fool. His words applied to Spectre as well as the combined British Security Services--all massive organizations left reeling in the messy aftermath.

"So humble," Rosalind murmured. She rested her right arm on the table as she leaned in slightly. He wondered if she'd let him enfold her slim hand in his. If three years without contact was an acceptable amount of time for such a public display. Before he could become dismayed by his indecisiveness, Rosalind surprised him by clasping his hands in hers.

“I’ve been promoted to Chief of Section D. Counterterrorism. It's mine.” She told him. Immense pride on her behalf filled him but he also knew that trite words of congratulations would irritate her. He simply turned his palms upward and pressed them into hers.

“Are you certain you’ll be able to resist the call back into the field?”

Rosalind’s eyes were lovely in the dim light. He expected her to smirk or to retort with the sort of snappy banter that usually defined their interactions. Their personal acquaintance spanned nearly two decades, their professional just a few years more than that. She did neither of those things. Instead, she let go of his hands and leaned forward over the table, his forgotten food and utensils, his pair of mobiles next to the wilting flower and candle. The earlier thrill he felt morphed into something so bright inside of him it almost hurt. Rosalind placed her hands over his cheeks, covering the small cuts from falling shards of glass during the fight with Denbigh. He found himself uncaring of who was watching. Let the world be damned.

“I’ve never been more certain in my life,” She whispered against his lips. “I’m home, Gareth.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the mid 1990's and the British Security Services are undergoing an existential crisis. The Intelligence and Security Committee of Parliament is created to regulate MI-6, and Gareth Mallory is a fresh-faced 32 year old MP appointed to serve. At age 28, Ros Myers is a formidable spy under no illusions as to what it takes to protect her country. All it takes is one fateful committee hearing to change the course of two lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the feedback! I hope Ros's characterization is believable. I should mention that as an American, I'm doing my best to get the vernacular/tone/jargon right while writing in this very British world. So please bear with me and forgive if I don't get something right in terms of the politics and UK foreign policy. Correct me if I'm wrong! I'm pulling from my very general knowledge of UK current events in the 90s and of the British intelligence community, as well as Bond and Spooks canon. I'm having lots of fun! I'd love to hear what you think.

“There is no art to find the mind’s construction in the face.”

-Macbeth

* * *

 1995 (20 years earlier)

The blustery weather outside had nothing on the current ambience of the Committee for Intelligence and Security. Gareth Mallory was a newly elected MP and a fresh face on a fledgling  parliamentary committee, and the only member  with previous military experience. He learned procedural matters through sheer diligence. What he hadn’t yet learned was how to redirect a toxic line of questioning for the benefit of both the long-suffering witness and his fellow MPs.

The chairman of the committee Alain Deacon, MP and Marquess of Exeter, had embarked on exactly that. A vein throbbed somewhere in Mallory’s forehead as question after question tumbled from Deacon’s lips. Interrupting him would be a ghastly breach of decorum. Mallory surmised that at least one of his colleagues was perhaps a minute or two away from doing it.

MI6’s representative at this hearing was a senior officer of the 00 program. 002, or his less commonly known name of Jack Colville, was a commendably patient witness. He was there to be held accountable for a recent operation in Kenya during which extraordinary measures were employed. Gareth was of the mindset that should the situation call for it, such measures were acceptable but the service was under fire. Legality mattered so much more, ever since the public acknowledgement of MI6’s existence just last year. More than one seat was at stake if these MPs didn’t appear to pummel 6 hard enough.

“All due respect, sir, have you ever served in a theatre of war?” A woman’s voice rang out, shockingly clear yet unaided by the mic. It had the effect of a gunshot silencing the room as every pair of eyes sought the source. His colleagues on the panel all straightened up at the pointed question. Gareth himself raised an eyebrow. The woman sat at 002’s side, dressed in a sharp suit. Her blonde hair was twisted back out of her face which made it impossible to ignore her disdainful expression. Gareth knew she was deeply offended. She hadn’t been formally introduced to the committee so he could only guess at her identity.

Heedless of the reaction she’d begun to court, the woman pressed on. “Have any of you ever put yourself in high risk situations for the greater good? Other than campaign stops on your reelections.” She glared at the others as the latter comment did not apply to a marquess. There was no mistaking the sarcasm in her icy tone. Gareth watched 002 surreptitiously hide a smirk behind his hand.

“Ms. Myers, spare us the histrionics-” The marquess attempted to silence the witness but she was having none of it. Gareth tried not to wince as he saw her expression go flat. His instincts told him she was about to verbally flay his colleague alive.

“Mr. Deacon, you of all people should appreciate the necessity of extreme measures. Wasn’t it just recently that a young family was taken hostage while holidaying in Kenya? A family from your constituency. And wasn’t it a team from 6 that produced the intel which made it possible to rescue them? We lost an officer in the gunfight that day. You may not have known this as there were no news, no inquiries, no publicity.”

By this point, the other MPs at the high table seemed to have realised there was no stopping her.

“While that family is now back, safe at home, another family grieves the loss of a father. He was a faceless intelligence officer who put his fellow citizens’ lives above his own and lost his life in the line of duty. He and countless others would thank you not to strip the security services of the ability to maneuver outside established parameters if need be. Reprimand us if you please. But the moment you so much as think of recommending budget cuts for any of the agencies as a petty way of punishing us, rest assured that no skeleton in your closet will go unearthed.”

Deacon abruptly brought the committee hearing to an end. Ms. Myers and her superior Jack Colville rose from the witness table in tandem. Gareth was amused at the chairman’s indignation as the words “ _waste of bloody time_ ” filtered in their direction. Colville didn’t look as though he were chastising his subordinate. It seemed Colville endorsed his protegee even if she’d essentially just spat in the face of the Intelligence and Security chairman.

The majority of the room had cleared out by the time the marquess snapped out of his shock. Gareth quickly schooled his features into indifference as he faced his chairman.

“She should count herself damn lucky she’s so protected.” Deacon rose to don his overcoat, grumbling as he adjusted the lapels. Gareth followed his lead and slid into his own coat, just then the windows rattled from the force of the storm outside. The rain beat steadily against the glass. It was still not loud enough to distort Deacon’s words.

“How do you mean?”

The marquess paused before closing his briefcase. “Her father is Sir Jocelyn Myers. Any move against his daughter Rosalind and the man wouldn’t hesitate to hit below the belt.” He replied grudgingly. “This committee doesn’t have that kind of political capital to spare yet.”

The name caught Gareth’s notice at once. Myers had been a substantial donor to Gareth’s first campaign in ‘92 and was a very influential figure in the business world. Myers himself had been a political figure, a career diplomat for the better part of thirty years before he transitioned to the private sector.

“She obviously is unafraid to burn bridges.” Gareth offered in consolation.

“I daresay she’ll soon learn that daddy won’t always be there after she does.”

The marquess’s parting words were ominous indeed. Gareth could not forget those flashing eyes, nor the deadly authority with which Rosalind Myers made her case.

* * *

The regulatory committee was as toothless as Mallory predicted it would be. Legitimacy took time to build. Intelligence and Security was in its infancy, and it was mercilessly gutted by one petite intelligence officer. He found his life in public service to be rewarding as it was frustrating. There hadn’t been anything like that hearing for some time. The days raced past in flurries of votes and briefings, events involving shaking hands, kissing babies, ribbon-cuttings and the like.

The House of Commons recessed for Christmas, allowing him to spend time with his family. Elaine humoured his desire to stay indoors for far longer than was socially acceptable. He’d had enough of the world and needed to recoup. The IRA’s actions, economic turmoil in Asia, recession in the new Russia...Gareth knew what he was in for when he entered Parliament but every so often, he felt as though he’d explode from the amount of information he had to retain.

“You can’t beg off this one, mate.” Elaine said gleefully. She glowed at the prospect of attending the holiday gala that evening. He admired the way her red satin skimmed her figure as she primped at the mirror. The way she tilted her head as she fastened her earrings beckoned his lips to the soft flesh of her nape, exposed by the way she’d arranged her long dark hair.

“Is there any possibility we might stay in? It’s not too late to cancel.” He mumbled against her skin. He felt her chuckle and knew he was beat.

“Not a chance. Besides, you’re already cutting a nice dash. We can’t let the invitation go to waste.” Elaine leaned back into her husband’s embrace, studying them both in the mirror.

 _Bloody waste of time_. A month had gone by and still he occasionally recalled that fantastic display. Elaine raised a questioning glance up to their reflections as she moved to place her hands over his at her waist. It seemed that the decision was set in stone. They departed their home at half past eight to arrive at Somerset House on time despite Central London's evening traffic.The party was beautifully organized and unabashedly extravagant.

He and Elaine made their rounds after dinner, greeting those of the glitterati and political set with whom they were friendly. Gareth found this part of his job disingenuous at best, enormously vapid at worst. Elaine took the lead some of the time, which he appreciated. His wife thrived in the social events that their lifestyle now rendered them privy to. He knew this was good for the sake of building connections and tried to pretend he was engaging in collection of useful facts. Facts to be dissected and analysed later.

“Mr. Mallory, I’m glad you are able to join us this evening,” Jocelyn Myers strode briskly toward him. He seemed to part the sea of people around him with effortless ease. His tuxedo fit him down to the very seam. The man extended his hand and Gareth shook it cordially, coming to the belated realisation that Myers was, in actual fact, one of the hosts of this event.

“My wife, Elaine.” Gareth said by way of introduction, and Myers charmingly raised her hand toward his lips without quite kissing it. Elaine took Gareth’s arm, pressing slightly into his side. Myers discomfited her, he realised, and he pressed back reassuringly.

“Thank you for inviting us. This is really something.” Gareth felt like a dolt with his simple observation. It didn’t seem to gall the other man. The string quartet in the corner of the room did an excellent job in taking advantage of the hall’s acoustics. Strains of traditional Christmas music lent an air of festive elegance to it all.

“I hope you’re not here to launch an investigation, Mr. Mallory.”

He froze for just a moment. Elaine felt it too. She tried valiantly to keep the smile on her face from looking more confused than sociable. Rosalind Myers came to stand at her father’s side, their resemblance blatant at this proximity.

“I thought I’d lay off tonight. I’m feeling charitable this Christmas season.” He joked smoothly.

“I heard about that fiasco,” Sir Jocelyn said. “From what Ros mentioned, you were the only member who kept their head throughout the proceedings.”

“High praise indeed.” Elaine chimed in with a laugh.

Gareth waited with bated breath for Rosalind’s response. She wore black, a stark difference compared to those wearing more seasonal colours. Her face was again left free for anyone to scrutinise since her hair was slicked back into a chignon.

When no one spoke and the silence began to grow strained, Sir Jocelyn stepped forward and offered to fetch champagne for everyone. Elaine agreed to accompany him, leaving Gareth alone with she who seemed to occupy his thoughts with embarrassing frequency.

“I do hope your first committee hasn’t completely put you off public service. I do like a proper fight, but that felt like stealing candy from babies.” The edge he’d remembered in her tone was nowhere to be found tonight. Rosalind looked relaxed. This was somewhat her turf.

“I must admit I enjoyed it. Certainly broke up the monotony. And you had very valid points.”

“It’s...gratifying there’s at least one member who can empathise.”

He looked away then, shrugging one shoulder. They were both bound by the Official Secrets Act. Technically, the committee proceedings were under strict confidentiality rules and he knew she wouldn’t directly reference her job nor what was discussed. This left him at a loss as to what to say next. Her gaze was unwavering. It unsettled him more than it ought to have.

“Anyway, I’m so looking forward to the new year. New beginnings and all that. I have it on good word that I may be travelling soon to South America. Peru, specifically.” She crossed her arms and cocked her head just so, as if the meaning of her statement should resonate with him.

“What’s this about Peru?” Suddenly, Elaine and Sir Jocelyn were back, each handing flutes of champagne to their respective people. Relief coursed inexplicably through him at the buffers his wife and Sir Jocelyn provided. He knew that a professional of Rosalind’s calibre could sense it. It was only a matter of time before she’d try exploiting it.

“I’ll be taking a business trip quite soon.” Ros clarified for his wife. She raised her glass and waited for everyone to follow suit. “To new adventures.”

The four of them clinked their glasses and drank as the quartet played on.

* * *

 

The good tidings of the new year hadn’t lasted six weeks. February saw a series of IRA bombings in London and Parliament scrambled to consider piece after piece of national security legislation. The Intelligence and Security committee convened almost weekly to offer up reports and advise the Prime Minister, which meant that Gareth spent more time in the office than at home. Elaine saw neither hide nor hair of him some days, but she understood how truly serious the situation was. The IRA was a sore spot for him on a personal level, and he’d be buggered before he neglected his due diligence.

This was why he was blindsided by the announcement that the committee was sending its most junior members on a fact-finding mission to Peru.

“To bolster the UK’s relations with Peru.” Deacon said offhandedly, passing around copies of the memo enumerating the trip’s itinerary and attendees. Gareth sat back in disbelief, raising the sheet of paper close so he could read it.

**MEMO**

**EYES ONLY**

**16 February 1996 - 23 February 1996**

_The Rt. Honourable Theodore McTaggart MP_

_The Rt. Honourable Martha Nelson MP_

_The Rt. Honourable Sir John Valls MP_

_The Rt. Honourable Gareth Mallory MP_

Gareth scanned the document further and it took everything in his power not to bark in exasperated laughter. A singular name among the list of the trip’s accompanying security detail had confirmed what he suspected after that ambiguous chat about South America at the Somerset House Christmas party.

  
_Ms. Rosalind Myers, MI-6_


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Committee sends 4 MPs on a fact-finding mission to Peru, along with 3 security escorts. Tensions simmer as Gareth Mallory and Ros Myers learn more about each other at very close quarters.

_“En un carro de olvido,_

_antes del aclarar,_

_de una estación del tiempo,_

_decidido a rodar.”_

-Violeta Parra

 

* * *

 

1996

The upside to being forced into a fact-finding mission that seemed otherwise irrelevant was the change of weather. Lima was a hidden gem among the South American capitals and from what Gareth had been told, February in Peru was the tail-end of their summer. He carefully packed his lighter suits and some casual attire appropriate for the more rugged parts of the trip as Elaine observed his progress.

She sat against the headboard of their bed, clutching a steaming mug of tea. He wondered if his ability to pack for himself without her explicit guidance was some kind of domestic test he hadn’t yet been subjected to in their four years of marriage. After he tucked the last of his socks into the suitcase, he saw her giggle into her tea.

“Sorry,” Elaine said, “You just looked _so_ disgruntled. As if the socks were responsible for organising this venture.”

Gareth took a breath and tried to exhale some of the tension away. “No, I’m the one who should be sorry. I should have at least asked if spouses were allowed to come as well. Other committees with travelling privileges allow it.”

Elaine waved one hand in dismissal. “It’s a busy time at the gallery now. I can’t afford to leave anyway.”

Gareth made a quiet noise of commiseration, only causing his wife to laugh again. He closed his suitcase, zipped it up and collapsed onto the mattress beside her. Elaine yelped as some of her tea sloshed at the sudden motion and she had to set the mug down on the bedside table before he could do any more damage.

“Sorry, dear.” Gareth wondered how many more times he’d have to apologise to her, for late nights at the office, last minute work trips and accidentally spilt tea. Her reservoir of forgiveness seemed to be unending. He knew better. To his chagrin, she leaned down and chastely kissed him. Her long hair fell forward to brush his cheeks at the motion. He admired the way she never hid her emotions from him, the way he could read her even without her speaking.

And just like that, the cosiness of the moment was chased away by the insistent ringing of his mobile. Gareth grimaced but it was too late--Elaine shifted away and lay on her side. She looked mildly irked as she said, “Well go on then.”

He reached for the phone, wishing he could chuck it out the window instead. It was a staff member from the Foreign Office with information he’d asked for regarding current Peruvian defence contracts with the UK. Gareth wanted to go in with pertinent knowledge of the issues in his policy area of expertise. South America wasn’t exactly his forte, other than what he’d been forced to learn about Argentina for obvious reasons. He wondered if the Argentinians got wind of a UK parliamentary trip to Peru, it’d result in any tension. The Falklands debacle was resolved in ‘89, at least officially, but it went without saying that it’d take far longer to restore de facto goodwill between Britain and Argentina.

“No, no, this is a good start. You’ve been enormously helpful, Claire. Thank you. See you soon.” Gareth tucked his phone into his trouser pocket and moved his suitcase from the bed to the floor. He stared at it, this physical confirmation that he was about to leave no matter how much he didn’t want to. Elaine must have known how he felt. She sat up and scooted toward him, leaning forward at the edge of the bed to grasp his shoulders.

“Why are you dreading this so much?”

He couldn’t immediately answer. It should have been that the committee with a vulnerable reputation was wasting taxpayer money on frivolous travel expenses. Or that the MP’s recesses were better spent doing outreach to their constituencies, and that the trip’s purpose was more in line with the Foreign Office’s directive than Parliament’s. The honest truth was, he didn’t know.

 _Bloody waste of time._ Gareth ran a hand over his face and tried to put those words out of his head. He wagered he’d be hearing a lot of that particular woman’s voice in the days to come. It didn’t need to start before it was absolutely necessary.

“Alright, come on. Let me drive you to the airport.” Elaine slid off the bed and took a final swig of tea from her mug on the table. She moved efficiently, slipping into her thick cable knit sweater and grabbing her purse off the top of her dresser. Gareth followed her, suitcase in tow.

Their farewell was a rather hurried one as he hopped out and took his bags from the boot of the car.

“Bring me something back, if you can.” She said with a smile. He kissed her on the cheek and stepped up onto the pavement as she rolled the car window back up. He watched Elaine drive away before steeling himself and proceeding in to find the rest of his group. Once all of their luggage was taken care of, it was smooth sailing. He spoke politely with his fellow MPs, comparing the different issues each of them took care to revise on. It was almost naively earnest how each of them agreed to take on certain policy areas for the trip. He was glad that he’d been sent with a good batch of people at the very least.

His pleasant mood came to a stuttering halt when the security detail arrived to tell them they finished their sweep of the plane. The names of the other two officers came to mind, and he repeated them back as they exchanged greetings and handshakes. The two men and one woman were likely all in their late twenties.

“A pleasure to see you, Mr. Mallory.” Rosalind Myers’s hand was cool in his. He smiled but he knew it didn’t reach his eyes. At once, he knew the reason for his previous unexplainable dread.

“Likewise.” He murmured. Their hands came apart and she moved on to speak with the others. He observed the reactions on his colleagues’ faces, wondering if they remembered this unapologetic upstart from the hearing months ago. If there was any remaining bad blood, it didn’t show. Maybe they realised their safety in the near future was largely dependent on this woman. His own was too.

Rules were explained perfunctorily by the lead officer, a man by the name of David Andrews, who was so clearly ex-military that it was almost comical. None of the MPs were to go off by themselves without their security escorts; they were to always use their secure phones to make international calls, mostly common sense things that they all already adhered to.

Before he knew it, they boarded the plane and filed into their business class seats. Takeoff was smooth and it wasn’t long before they were allowed to unbuckle their seatbelts, stand, walk, stretch. They had one stop in Madrid and then they were on their way to Lima. Gareth brought some unclassified work with him, mostly legislative research involving data regarding health statistics within his constituency. He read until his vision began to blur with the percentages, charts and hospital names on the pages. He removed his reading glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger.

Some of the others were dozing off, trying to rest as much as they could since their schedule was unforgiving the moment they touched down. They had a few more hours remaining of the eleven it took from Madrid to Peru. Time felt as though it slowed to a crawl. He had no further motivation to trawl through the documents he took with him, but the alternative was to make small talk with whoever was still awake. Sleep never came easily to him while in the air.

He glanced around the cabin. The main lights were dimmed. He reached up to shut off his reading light. When he sat back down, he saw Rosalind approach. She took a seat, uninvited, in the one directly across him. There were no signs of sleep on her face or sluggishness in her demeanor.

“It’s reassuring how industrious you are. Even when you don’t have to be.” Her low tones were strangely soothing. She crossed her denim-clad legs and made herself comfortable. She was wearing black again, a simple long-sleeved shirt that accentuated her lines.

“You can take me out of the army, but you can’t take the army out of me, I suppose.”

“True discipline is a rare virtue.”

His knee-jerk reflex to shrug off a compliment was strong, yet coming from her, he sensed it was something she seldom did. He could definitely believe that. He inclined his head in thanks. Funny how often his thoughts were drawn to her, but how little he actually had to say now that she was here in front of him.

“Peru is at quite a fascinating crossroads. Of the places to be carted off to, it’s not the worst.” She mused as she studied her fingernails. She sounded pensive. It occurred to him that perhaps he wasn’t the only one with misgivings. “President Alberto Fujimori won his second election last year and is more popular than ever with the people. We’ll see how long the glow lasts. His majority in congress just issued pardons for all members of the Peruvian military for human rights violations in the eighties.”

He perked up at that. “Fujimori is—“

“First generation Peruvian, of Japanese descent, educated in Peru, France and the States. Serving his second term in office at the height of his power.”

“He’s done impressive work in weakening Shining Path.” Gareth said. “Unfortunately at the expense of some innocent lives. It appears to be one of the worst kept secrets.”

Rosalind looked him in the eye. “Extreme measures. For the greater good. If one can’t make those kinds of judgments when they’re needed, they shouldn’t be in this business.”

“...Part of the reason why I didn’t raise objections with your statement.”

“Because you _have_ made those decisions. I can tell just by looking at you, sir. Even if I hadn’t read your bio.”

He felt his cheeks heat up at the idea that she’d taken care to read about his background. There was still enough light in the cabin for her to see him blush if she looked. She did. He scolded himself that of course she would have, as it was part of her job. She probably read all of the others’ backgrounds too. Yet nothing he tried to convince himself of could get rid the colour in his face.

“Statues will be raised in our honour one day, or we’ll go to prison. I’m hoping it’ll be the former rather than the latter.” He said. Nothing like gallows humour as a diversion tactic. Rosalind snorted in reply but made no further comment. She simply sat a bit deeper in the chair and stared out the window into the darkness. He exhaled roughly and decided to try to sleep.

“Ros, there are some logistics we need to review…” David said from the next row over. None of the MPs stirred at the slightly louder volume. Ros was out of the chair ready to get to work as though she hadn’t just been relaxing. She sat down with her back toward him, but he could still hear her. She and her fellow officers pored over the first few events on the itinerary; locations, things to note, the government officials who’d be present…

The next thing he knew, he was being gently shaken awake by Martha Nelson, who then told him they’d just landed. He didn’t even remember falling asleep, much less the last time he slept so deeply on a plane. What he did remember was listening to the smooth cadence of Rosalind’s voice as she went over the security plan in the periphery, just before he drifted off.

* * *

Dinner on the first night of the trip was at a humble restaurant called Punto Azul. They were served traditional Peruvian fare that was so delicious, Gareth was sure the more portly MPs would fall into a food coma after they finished. He was a man of simple tastes but he especially liked the scallops baked in parmesan cheese and the seafood ceviche.

The group dined with the city leadership, Lima’s mayor and the federal representative for the district that included the city. They spoke impeccable English, as none of their group were proficient in Spanish, and the discussion mostly focused on local issues. There was a surprising amount that each of the elected officials had in common in terms of problems their constituencies faced and the kinds of solutions they’d implemented. Gareth reflected that this was exactly the kind of exchange that the trip aimed to facilitate.

Rosalind, David and Sam did not eat with them. Sam maintained watch outside the room that the restaurant reserved expressly for them while Rosalind and David stayed with the group. Gareth did not feel like they were in danger thus far, but they were currently in one of the more affluent parts of Lima called Miraflores.

“Sendero Luminoso has strong presence on the outskirts of the city. Our law enforcement has made significant gains and kept them from detonating bombs en el centro as they used to. We still have much to accomplish, however.” said the Mayor, a kind man of middling stature who could people at ease within seconds of meeting him.

Gareth sympathised greatly. They each, as countries, had their struggles with violent insurgent organisations. He knew best the human cost that these conflicts incurred for all sides. From the looks on the Peruvians’ faces, so did they.

The dinner concluded warmly and they were driven to the British Embassy, just four blocks south of the restaurant. Everyone was exhausted by jetlag and the need to be ‘on their best game’ while interacting with their hosts. Gareth sat in the back row of the van, since he was one of the tallest and needed more legroom than there was elsewhere. Rosalind’s blonde hair glinted from where she was in the passenger’s seat. He wondered how much she’d slept or eaten in the past twenty four hours. Not much, he was guessing, but she was as impassive as ever and showed no signs of fatigue.

Gareth had no problem falling asleep that night, but he at least had the presence of mind to dress in pyjamas and brush his teeth. He rose at the sound of his wakeup call and went about his morning routine. His head pounded and he knew he wasn’t fully rested. The only way to adjust one’s body clock was to force it into alignment with the new timezone.

He stepped out into the hall of the embassy’s living quarters and saw it was empty. It was very quiet. Perhaps nobody else was awake at six in the morning. Gareth could either go back to his room and read or explore his surroundings. He knew that security rules prevented him from going off alone. He sat in the armchair by the window for a while, as the light changed and the sun rose.

“To hell with it.” He muttered to himself. He pulled on his jacket over his dress shirt, no tie, and brushed down the legs of his trousers. Tucking his approved secure phone and his roomkey into his pocket, Gareth left his room and walked down the hall toward the exit. He nodded politely to the embassy guards posted at the gates and paused on the street. He didn't notice the night before that the embassy was situated about a quarter mile from the Pacific coast.

He took his time walking toward what he supposed was the access point for the ocean. The breeze was gentle and unlike other tropical countries, the air was refreshingly crisp. Gareth came to find a well-maintained park just before the staircase down the side of the cliff toward the beach. There weren’t many people out at this hour.

It took him about ten minutes to make his way down the stairs. The sunlight ensured the path was well lit though he was still careful about his progress. Upon reaching the sand, he decided to get as close as he could to the water where it lapped onto the shore.

Only then did he notice a solitary individual standing where he intended to go. He knew exactly who it was.

“I thought no one was allowed to go anywhere alone?” He kept his voice soft. The sun hadn’t quite risen all the way and cast a warm glow.  He felt it wouldn’t be right to speak at full volume. She didn’t startle at his appearance, didn’t even open her eyes. A small smile tilted her lips upward as she took a deep breath and let it go. The retreating waves seemed to follow the timing of her exhalation.

“That only goes for those under our watch.” She was just as quiet. 

The scenery was breathtaking. He was shocked by the prime real estate the Foreign Office somehow managed to receive, but nothing could be more lovely than the way she turned slowly toward him. Her eyelids lifted and he could see her eyes were hazel. She crossed her bare arms--she’d worn a white cotton blouse that fluttered with the wind--and the smile left her face though her expression stayed open.

“But who watches the watchers?” Gareth asked. His voice had turned a bit gravelly. He stood close, but not too close, their arms didn’t brush at all.

“A conundrum for the powers that be.” Her own had turned husky as well. It seemed they were mirror images of each other, quietly standing side by side on the beach. They had nowhere to be for another hour, so he savored the unexpected peace. The sun climbed higher and higher, and a group of surfers barrelled down the steps to run straight into the water. Ros smirked at their enthusiasm. He knew their time was up.

“Come on, sir, you’ve got a full day ahead.”

“Gareth.” He found himself saying to her retreating back. “When we’re like this, call me Gareth.”

She stopped in her tracks but didn’t face him, just turned so that he could see her profile.

“Then call me Ros.”

They went up the stairs without talking, but he was cognisant that something changed. It was inevitably superseded by the day’s schedule, the embassy had come to life and Rosalind showed no signs that whatever it was affected her too. She was the consummate professional, she was maddening, she was _Ros_.

When Gareth went to the bathroom to splash his face with water, he stared at himself in the mirror.

“ _Damn it.”_ He whispered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been to Peru and explored all the places that the group is visiting, so I'm doing my best to be accurate as possible for your enjoyment. :) Also, in case anyone is confused, the Committee is the one Mallory was head of in Skyfall before he was appointed the next M. I'm fleshing out what his early days as an elected official may have been like. I forget he was a politician rather than a spy before he became the top spy. It's dear Ros that's been a spy since day one.


	4. Chapter 4

“A soft woman is simply a wolf caught in meditation.”

-Pavana

* * *

 

Gareth steadfastly refused to succumb to jetlag. He rose a quarter after six on the second morning of the trip and resolved to go for a run outdoors. They’d been driven on the road running alongside the cliff called the Malecón several times by now to get to and from the Embassy. The cliffside path was suitable for pedestrians and offered a stunning view of the ocean. In a lightweight pullover, sweatpants and trainers, he felt unobtrusive enough. He made no noise, leaving his room and stepping into the hall. Again his colleagues were either still asleep or tucking into the breakfast buffet. He made sure his room key was secure in his pocket and continued to the elevator.

The exit on the ground floor was staffed by Peruvian nationals working for the embassy, young men to whom he said, “Good morning” as he passed. It was warmer that day. Warm enough for him to regret wearing a pullover instead of one of the t-shirts he’d balled up at the bottom of his suitcase. To compensate, he focused on breathing properly. The views really did make the experience far more pleasant than it might have been otherwise. He didn’t pass too many others along the way, only local residents with their dogs and people biking perhaps to work. Running in Lima made a nice change from his usual workout at the fitness club back home.

Gareth ran until he felt it prudent to use his remaining strength to make it back to the embassy. By his estimation, he’d gone about five kilometres. Not too far but just enough to wake him up and clear his head. A quick shower and shave, and he was dressed in a light blue collared shirt beneath a casual grey suit. He took only his wallet, passport and phone as they had another full day of plans and he didn’t want to fuss about.

“Good morning, Gareth.” Martha Nelson greeted him as he helped himself to fresh bread and scrambled eggs at breakfast. She was of the resilient, upbeat sort, as many women at that level in government positions tended to be. Her sense of humour was so dry it was often difficult to tell if she was joking half the time. Nonetheless, Martha was one of his favorite colleagues.

“Morning. Sleep well?” He watched as she refilled her coffee mug and went about adding cream and sugar.

“All too well! I stayed up later than I thought after speaking with my chief of staff and fell asleep dreaming of outreach efforts in Stoke Newington and Peruvian boobies.”

“I won’t ask you to elaborate on that second point.” He said through a mouthful of eggs.

Martha scoffed. “Honestly, Mallory did you read the itinerary at all? We’re going to the Ballesta Islands to tour the fertiliser plant. They create organic fertiliser from the massive amounts of bird excrement there and export it worldwide. A lot of it goes to the UK actually.”

McTaggart and Valls joined them at the breakfast table, both of them looked a bit peaky at the mention of bird excrement. Gareth wore his best poker face when asking, “Remind me how this has anything to do with national security?”

“I think the committee planners were out of serious items and this was a last ditch addition.” Valls grumbled from behind his coffee. He and McTaggart were around fifteen or so years his and Martha’s senior, decidedly more conventional than their female colleague.

“Fair enough. Perhaps we can work together to find a way to use bird shit for fighter-jet fuel.” Martha deadpanned.

The three men couldn’t help but laugh outright at that, in the safety of their own embassy where none of their hosts could possibly be offended. The rest of the meal was spent in serious discussion of the events ahead. At eight o’clock, Sam from their security team informed them the van was ready and it was time to go.The first visit was to the Peruvian Ministry of Foreign Affairs, right at the center of colonial Lima. Senior Peruvian and UK diplomats from the Lima branch of the Foreign Office were to meet them. From there, the delegation would embark on a thorough tour of the city center and its historical sites.

Claire Vasquez was the senior political director at the British Embassy in Lima and thus had the most meaningful connections with the Ministry’s leadership. It didn’t hurt that she held dual English and Spanish nationalities. She’d been the primary consultant for their delegation and was helpful with Gareth’s defence-related inquiries. Straightforward in her phone manner, she knew exactly what sort of information he needed and what was naff.

Claire introduced them to her Peruvian counterpart, a man by the name of Luis Málaga Lopez. Gareth judged him to be mid-thirties from his energy. The man’s movements had an economic brand of grace as he said, “Welcome, or as we say bienvenido, to our headquarters and our city’s center. I hope you have all had a pleasant start to your trip.” Lopez introduced his senior staff who were similarly polite but whose English was more heavily accented.

“The warmth and hospitality we’ve experienced is unparalleled.” Martha said with genuine appreciation. The men of the group concurred with the statement.

“Emphasis on the warmth! It deserves our utmost gratitude, we’d just gotten through a nasty storm when we left.” McTaggart added with no small amount of cheek. This prompted laughter all ‘round. Gareth was pleased how it set the tone on a good note for the rest of the day.

The security teams then introduced themselves to each other, and to the different principals of both nations. The Peruvian security looked especially capable, tall and strong in uniform, in contrast to the British team’s plain clothes. Ros greeted Claire and Lopez in surprisingly fluent Spanish--the change of language modified her posh English accent to a more robust sound. Yet another intriguing transformation, Gareth noted, against his will. He lingered in the back with McTaggart in exploring the Latin American art of the office lobby, all the bursts of colour and form in the otherwise staid room.

The group’s remarks and general attitude went over very well with the Peruvians, and soon enough they were on their tour. Gareth was engrossed enough in the history and architecture that surrounded them to not consciously tune into Ros’s every move. She was on duty, along with David, Sam, and the Peruvian ministry’s guards. As they were primarily moving on foot, the security situation was more porous than it would have been if they were in the van. He couldn’t help calling to mind what the Mayor said about Shining Path’s attempts to bomb this section of Lima. It caused him to shiver slightly despite the afternoon heat.

It turned out Valls was an amateur photographer. He slowed the group down a bit to document the impressive façade of the Cathedral and Plaza de Armas, but their minders humoured him. It seemed this truly was the heart of the city, as major government buildings, shops and cafes lined the area around it. Crowds of tourists flocked to see the changing of the guard at the Palacio Presidencial. They didn’t stay long. Maybe the Peruvians didn’t want them to question why they hadn’t received an executive welcome.

Gareth was walking with Claire as the group wound its way through the Plaza. They were discussing the Peruvian navy’s purchase of British ships meant to patrol the southeastern drug cartel territories. They kept their voices sotto voce in case their minders realised they were talking about some of the more controversial subjects in Peruvian politics.

“The cocaine is shipped out toward the port city of Callao via the rivers, from there heavily armed drug mules carry the shipments on foot. The mules are often young boys looking to make money to support their families. When the police target the mules, both suffer heavy casualties.” Claire muttered sadly.

“Makes it a hell of a lot harder to condemn drug trafficking when you learn the demand comes from North America and Europe.” Gareth replied.

“We run some entrepreneurial outreach programs and microfinance training with the municipalities to create opportunities that keep young kids away from the drug trade but that can only do so much. It’s a culture, a way of life in some of the rural parts.”

“You do excellent work here. Britain couldn’t have asked for a better rep nor Peru for a more dedicated partner.”

“Don’t let the Yanks hear you say that.” Claire winked.

The perseverance that frontline FCO diplomats possessed never failed to impress Gareth. Claire not only had an excellent grasp of the country and language but also humility that prevented her from becoming complacent. She was staring at something ahead, rather intently.

“Damn that cheeky bastard.” Claire sighed with disapproval.

Gareth followed Claire’s line of sight. Valls was still snapping photos of everything they passed, Martha was chatting happily with Lopez, McTaggart was trying to avoid being pickpocketed by street kids and the security team was evenly dispersed ahead. Then Gareth saw what Claire saw.

Ros and one of the Peruvian guards were walking too closely together for it to be considered professional. Her back was rigid as she strode forward but her pace couldn’t deter the guard. Every few steps, the guard would raise his hand to the small of her back. Though Ros didn’t welcome or dissuade the contact, Gareth knew she had to have been irritated by it. He couldn’t see either of their faces as this carried on a few more times. Claire watched him react and he decided he needed to see if everything was alright.

“Excuse me, I need to ask Rosalind something. I’ll be right back.” He excused himself and lengthened his steps.

“Rosalind, do you have an extra copy of the maps we were handed earlier?” Gareth blurted out the first thing that came to mind, interrupting whatever the pair had been saying between themselves. The guard’s hand flew back to his side where it belonged and both he and Ros turned halfway to glance back at him. He was right; her eyes flashed dangerously and her smile was almost deadly. He wondered why she didn’t tell the guard to back off.

“Let me check, sir.” Ros then looked at the guard and said, “Perdón, tengo que responder a la pregunta del Señor.**”

The guard nodded and gave them some distance. Gareth sighed. They were probably near their lunch location by now and it was nearing one thirty. They still had much left to cover. Ros lifted an eyebrow but said nothing, just continued walking. Her eyes constantly scanned their environment. He wondered if he wasn’t much better than the poor chap he’d driven away if his own presence was just as much of a hindrance to her.

"He's awfully friendly, no?" It slipped past his lips before he could filter his thoughts. Ah well, in for a penny, in for a pound.

Ros narrowed her eyes. "He's Latin." When he refused to let it go, she crossed her arms over her chest and said, "If my choices are to grit my teeth and bear it, or cause an international incident while the Peruvians are hosting a UK delegation, I think the optimum choice is clear."

Gareth didn't intend to patronise her further but it still left a bitter taste in his mouth. Ros was more than capable of holding her own and he was stupid to doubt she could.

Nonetheless, he began, "If he tries, anything-"

"If he tries anything he'll get a swift one in the solar plexus. Satisfied?" Her nonchalant tone didn't fool him at all. The whole exchange suddenly seemed so ludicrous that he couldn't help but laugh. He laughed loudly, unable to help himself. It seemed to be infectious because she looked like she was struggling to reign in her own laughter. A small giggle that was so unlike her almost had him checking if pigs were flying. She got herself under control before they drew further attention to themselves.

At lunch, they ate splendidly. He and Claire involved Martha in the more politically correct version of their earlier conversation and got Lopez to weigh in on the drug situation. Facts and figures dominated the hour. All the while, Gareth wondered what it would sound like if Ros really truly laughed and how he could make it happen.

* * *

The tour of old Lima ended with Lopez’s farewell, and the group boarded their van for the journey south toward the region of Ica. Their main goal was to see the northern shipping port on the Paracas peninsula, which was one of the sites where some British aircraft carriers stopped while patrolling the Pacific. Gareth privately acknowledged that this was related to their committee's mission, so he had no complaints. The infrastructure on the way down from Lima had steadily deteriorated, however. It took a very long three hours to reach Paracas, a seaside town near the port and the Ballesta Islands.

A half hour boat ride brought them out to the islands, and all anyone could focus on was the stench. Bird shit indeed--there were thousands of Peruvian boobies that dwelt on the islands, second to them were the packs of sea lions that lazed about on the rocks. They were able to view the scientific research station as well as the fertiliser plant from the boat’s position.

On the way back, they docked at the shipping port and disembarked to tour the facility. Their guide spoke Spanish only and Ros was the only one of the group who could translate. Gareth used the excuse to look at her and listen. He would ask her how she attained such fluency at some point.

It was well past ten o’clock when they finally settled into their little seaside hotel back in Paracas. There was a small bar in the lobby but it went unstaffed at that time of night. Martha, Valls and McTaggart were exhausted and nowhere to be found. Gareth was tired to his bones but thought a glass of something stronger than water was very appealing at the moment. He searched the shelves behind the bar and when he was about to change his mind about drinking, he turned around to find Rosalind staring back at him expectantly.

“There’s some pisco on the back shelf. Just there.” She nodded with her chin. “If you don’t want to drink alone, pour me a shot.”

He did as he was told wordlessly. Sitting across from her at an uneven wooden table, Gareth found he already felt drunk--jetlag and his own muddled feelings made one intoxicating blend. He was about to take a swig but she held a single finger up in warning.

“There’s a way to do this. You have to smell the alcohol. Let your senses acclimate first.”

His scepticism must have been plain as day. He was a grown man who'd done his fair share of drinking throughout his lifetime. Did she think he couldn't hold his liquor and was a one hit wonder? Regardless he watched her do it and followed her lead.

“Now, you take the whole drink into your mouth but do not swallow. You have to hold it in your mouth for three whole seconds. As if you’re gargling while brushing your teeth.”

“Ready?” He said in a challenging tone. She just smirked and tossed the drink back. When he tried to do as she explained, he was mortified when his eyes teared up and he felt like the entire inside of his mouth was on fire. She looked nonplussed. He watched her count to three on one hand, each of her slender digits lifting exaggeratedly slow.

They swallowed, and not a moment too soon.

“ _Fucking_ _christ_!” Gareth wheezed. He slammed the shot glass upside down and sat back in his chair, coughing.

He was stunned when Ros threw her head back and laughed, a full-bodied rich laugh that warmed him far more than the Peruvian alcohol.

 

**Ros tells the guard to excuse her so she can answer Gareth's question.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simmering tensions come to a boil. Ros's solution is to turn down the flame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I confess I listened to "Writing's on the Wall" on repeat while writing this chapter. I'm completely addicted to this fic...I hope you've been enjoying the ride. Please let me know if anything's wrong with my British English or if you don't understand certain parts. Ica and the oasis are real places in Peru, but the desert is not actually used as a military drill site as far as I know. That part I invented for the sake of the fic. For anyone who's curious about the drink that M and Ros had in the previous chapter, "Pisco" is Peru's national liquor and is upward of 50% alcohol content. Anyway, a comment or two would make my day :)

“In the midst of chaos, there is also opportunity.”

-Sun Tzu

* * *

 The next two days passed quickly. Their local guides were considerably more easygoing than in the city and spoke absolutely no English. This left Claire and Ros to switch off on simultaneous translation duty. At lunch on the fourth day of the trip, Claire dropped into a chair and took a healthy swig of bottled water. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand and said with a tired smile, “I haven’t done this much interpreting in years. Ros lived in Chile when her father worked for the Foreign Office so she has the benefit of childhood fluency. Interpreting can take a lot out of a person.”

They’d taken two Jeeps through the desert east of Paracas in order to see the vast sand dunes and oasis that the region was famous for. The Peruvian military sometimes conducted exercises and drills in the uninhabited portions of the Ica desert. Gareth could understand why such a spot was ideal. They pulled up to the desert oasis around mid afternoon when the sun beat down on the sand and the heat was at its highest point. The oasis itself was beautiful, its edges boasted sturdy palm trees whose leaves swayed lethargically. There were small houses and a few hotels around the water, visitors outnumbered the residents and the main source of revenue for the area came from tourism.

Valls and Martha went off to take photos of the oasis, accompanied by Sam. David and Claire stayed with Gareth and McTaggart at the open-faced cafe that faced the water. McTaggart was amazed at the natural phenomenon, how Peru’s geography could be so varied.

“Coast, desert and the Amazon all in one country!” McTaggart remarked. “I confess I wasn’t thrilled when we were on the plane here. I am decidedly glad we were sent after all.”

“Me as well,” Gareth admitted, earning amused looks from the security officer and diplomat. “You’ve all been wonderful and we owe you much for your assistance.”

“This is what we signed up to do.” David shrugged, though one could tell he was quietly pleased at the gratitude. It was only too easy to take them for granted, Gareth knew. Claire nodded in agreement and drank more water, scanning the sparse throngs of people around the waterfront.

Gareth spotted a curious statue of a mermaid near the miniature dock. “Any particular significance to that?”

Claire furrowed her brow as she composed her reply. “That statue depicts the mermaid of the oasis’s creation story. Legend has it the lagoon was formed from the tears of an Incan princess who lost her lover to sudden death. There are many variants to the tale, but that’s the gist of it. Tragic story, but it doesn’t at all deter South American honeymooners from coming here. This is a very popular spot for them.”

“I’m sure that story doesn’t hurt marketing efforts to draw foreign visitors’ money either.” McTaggart said a touch too snidely. Gareth was chagrined by his colleague’s cynicism. He also drank from his water bottle and set it on the table before getting up to take stock of his surroundings. David made to get up as well but Gareth waved him away.

 He didn’t see Martha or Valls anywhere, perhaps they’d made it to the other side of the water by then. There was a family negotiating a rowboat rental and a few food vendors selling fragrant local food, in spite of that he was awed by the utter silence of the place. He searched for Ros, unable to find her at first glance. Gareth finally spotted her near the balustrade of the village center that overlooked the lagoon. He picked up his pace in her direction, noticing she was stooped over and speaking with a small child. The little girl looked anxious, which explained Ros’s quiet Spanish that he overheard as he approached. They were in an emptier part of the town. Most people were down by the water. The silence was distinct here.

“Estás segura que tu madre partió de aca? Tal vez ella regrese pronto.*” Ros asked. The little girl seemed to avoid Ros’s eyes, fretfully clutching at her doll. Ros sighed, placing her palms flat on her thighs. Ros made no acknowledgement of Gareth’s presence, she was purely concerned for the child.

“Señora, por favor, tengo miedo.” Came the tiny voice. Gareth knew enough basic Spanish to know that meant the girl was afraid. Ros straightened and held her arms out. The girl immediately ran into her embrace, hugging tightly. That sort of instant trust was astounding. Ros finally looked at Gareth in the eye and the compassion in her was something he hadn’t expected to see.

Wisps of her blonde hair escaped from the confines of her bun. Her skin was flushed slightly from the desert heat and maybe even a little sunburned. Her collared shirt was rumpled and her jeans were dusty. She shouldn’t have looked alluring, but his mind seemed to deviate from conventional standards. He had nothing to say. They just looked at each other while she comforted the little girl with gentle strokes over her back.

A flash of movement behind Ros jolted him out of the moment. He gasped, eyes widening in horror. Ros whipped her head around and didn’t stop to think as she shoved the girl into his arms and turned around. He held the girl tightly, torn between protecting her and grabbing Ros to get her back but she was already charging the gunman who fired twice in rapid succession. He picked the girl up and ran for the nearest house to take cover behind a wall. Heart hammering, he listened for sounds of a scuffle. Tense minutes passed as the kid cowered in his grip, every fibre of his being screamed at him to help Ros.

Frantic footsteps could be heard nearby. It was David who sprinted toward the commotion, flying past Gareth and the girl.

When the all clear came, Gareth left the girl behind the house and ran to where he saw the town’s police arresting their injured assailant. David was with Ros, whose expression had closed off completely. They were speaking to each other the way intelligence officers did, in hushed language between them that only they understood. Gareth went to them, telling himself he needed to see she wasn’t shot. He held a hand out as if to grasp her arm. Before he could say anything, Ros wrenched herself away and hissed, “I’m fine.” She stormed away, not even sparing a second glance for the little girl who she’d been so protective of earlier. David clenched his jaw and they both looked on while she went toward their Jeeps.

“These types of scams are not unheard of. They’ll use little children as bait, lure visitors to secluded areas and then move in. They’ll go after wallets, money, anything they can sell.” David explained. So it wasn’t a terrorist threat or the delegation being targeted. No wonder Ros was so angry. She’d fallen victim to an attempt at petty theft.

The ride back to Paracas was uncomfortable, both because of the potholes in the road and the stony silence. Ros had a cut on her cheek and a reddish bump on her forehead that looked like it would swell up the next day. Gareth knew she felt badly about what transpired. He probably would have too, had the roles been reversed. He was just grateful that no one was seriously hurt. It was impressive, however, the way she went after the attacker without hesitation. The way she charged right into the barrel of a gun and subdued the man. From the way she was unwaveringly staring out the window, he knew better than to voice his thoughts.

Ros was the first to leap out of the Jeep and head into the hotel. Sam and David secured the vehicles while she swept the lobby and greeted the hotel’s owner and staff. Valls, Martha and McTaggart followed, ready for a late dinner and then to turn in for the night. The meal passed in pensive silence, save for the clinking of utensils on plates. The security team ate at another table but were finished long before they did. Ros went up to her room with David’s approval as he and Sam waited for the MPs.

In the darkness of the corridor, Gareth paused where he knew Ros’s room to be. He raised his knuckles to knock, hovering at his eye-level. When he detected no sounds from within, he rethought his decision and continued down to his room. The anticipation of seeing her, vulnerable and quiet, and then his self-denial jarred him beyond comprehension. He shouldn’t disturb her. It’d be inappropriate.

 _More inappropriate than taking shots of Pisco in an empty bar? Than watching the sun rise over the ocean on an empty beach? Than fending off an overly flirtatious security guard?_ Gareth viciously silenced the nagging thoughts. He pulled off his dusty clothes and hung them over the back of the desk chair. His shoes were full of sand when he kicked them off. He rinsed off in the shower, grateful for running water, and put on a shirt and a pair of briefs.

He pulled out his international phone for the first time during the trip and dialled a number he knew by heart. Pressing it close to his ear, he reclined on the bed. His legs were too long for the mattress and his feet dangled off the edge. Four rings and the line went live.

“Darling, I’ve been worried! Nearly a week and I haven’t heard from you once.” Elaine’s voice was tinny in his ear. She sounded drowsy like she just woke up. Gareth realised London time was several hours ahead and it was early in the morning where his wife was.

“I’m sorry,” Another apology escaped him. He closed his eyes and imagined her sitting in their kitchen, wearing that fluffy lavender bathrobe as she went about making breakfast. Maybe it was still stormy and London was plagued by traffic, the neighbor’s cat may have trampled through their herb garden again. He wasn’t there to shoo it away, Elaine would have to chase after it in her robe and slippers. What was a cat doing outside in the pouring rain anyway…?

“-Gareth? Are you still there?”

Her voice jolted him out of his sleepy haze.

“Yeah, just tired. I’m sorry again, I just wanted to hear your voice.”

“Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, everything’s great. I’ve learnt a lot more than I thought I would at the onset. Peru is beautiful.”

“It’s a shame you’re not able to go to Macchu Pichu.”

“Unfortunately, I don’t think the taxpayers would appreciate us using their money for sightseeing expenses. We’ll have to come back one day, just the two of us.”

“Oh, you’re an expert now are you?” She teased.

“I told you, I’ve learnt a thing or two.” He nestled into the duvet and pillow, facing the center of the bed as if Elaine were actually there. “How is it at the gallery?”

“We’ve received some of the new shipments--did you know that a lot of them are from South American artists? Lots of sculpture on loan to us, a couple of paintings--oh! That reminds me, I had a bit of a chat with your chief of staff and we were thinking it may be a nice idea to hold an art contest. We’d solicit entries from students in our constituency and the winner could have their work displayed in your office. I could have a friend of mine, a curator, judge the works and grant prizes to encourage the arts among young students…”

Elaine was in the habit of speaking in a stream of consciousness when she was excited about an idea. Truth be told, he was only half listening. He wanted the normalcy she exuded, the blissful stability. She rarely paused for input until she’d finished her piece.

“That sounds brilliant. I’ll speak with Alistair when I get back. Only two more days until I see you.”

“Can’t wait. I’ll have supper ready when you arrive, and I’ll pick you up at Heathrow. I love you.”

He repeated it back, hung up, and drifted into a fitful sleep.

* * *

By the end of the fact-finding mission, the MPs were more than ready to go home though no one complained aloud. They departed Paracas by van and endured the three hour return drive toward Lima. Gareth observed the little towns they passed, leaning against the van window. He and the others discussed all they’d experienced and what they’d take back with them in terms of cultural exchange. He was surprised by how open minded McTaggart and Valls were. Martha had tart comments for a few things but she too admitted to enjoying the trip.

Sam drove the van while David sat in the passenger seat, he and his colleagues occupied the van’s middle rows, and Ros was sat next to Claire  in the last row. Gareth avoided speaking to her directly as she still looked unapproachable, her face blank and inscrutable. Lima was a welcome sight as they rolled into the sprawling metropolis for one more night before their early morning departure.

The British Embassy loomed high along the Larcomar skyline, how was it that he hadn’t noticed how imposing the building looked before? Its black reflective walls glittered in the night. The van pulled into the underground parking structure and they exited. He and his colleagues were greeted by embassy staff who went into the back of the van for all the luggage so they could take it to their rooms.

“I’ll make sure supper is underway.” Claire excused herself from the group.

The MPs went to the Embassy’s reception room where they found tea, coffee and light refreshments awaiting them. The security team didn’t come in, leaving them free to discuss sensitive issues. Despite the privacy afforded to them, no one really wanted to speak. The rest of the evening was just as morose. Gareth knew they were thinking of the immediate leap back into active session just a day after their return to London and the never-ending political arguments that awaited them in the House.

He and Valls hung back to for a nightcap. Martha begged off and McTaggart stayed just for one finger of whiskey. Valls nattered on about his photos while Gareth nodded and smiled vacantly. He’d gone through quite a bit of whiskey before he realised he was alone in the reception room.

The wooden door opened slowly. Ros stepped in, wearing a black singlet and cream-coloured slacks that brushed the floor as she walked. Her face was as open as it was on the morning of the beach. It stole his breath. He waited for her to come close to stand in front of him. He set his glass down on the coffee table and sat up, not taking his eyes off her. He lamented the bump on her forehead that looked rather painful, and the dried blood on the cut on her cheek.

She spoke without preamble. “I acted carelessly. I should have seen what was going on.”

Without thinking, he placed a gentle hand on her waist. She didn’t flinch away. He belatedly realised the possible double meaning behind her words. Did she know how much he enjoyed being provoked by her? His head spun at the implications. The feel of her was at once too much and not enough. His fingers flexed as if to reassure himself she was really there and he heard her inhale sharply through her nose. His other hand came up to rest on her hip.

“You’re fantastic,” He whispered and then instantly felt stupid at the way drink had loosened his tongue. 

He watched, mesmerised, as she leaned down so her face was nary an inch from his.

“Gareth, this can’t go on. You’ll carry on with your life with Elaine, your seat in the Commons will be safe. You’ll make the Committee a critical part of the intelligence community. To keep us in line.” She pressed her cheek against his. He could hear her steady breathing at his ear, feel the warmth of her skin that looked like perfect marble.

“But this,” Her lips on his cheek and the words he knew were coming were double edged swords. “This can’t happen.”

Before she could straighten up, he reached out and pulled her into an embrace. He pressed his face into her stomach, hugging her waist, and knew this was her saying her private goodbye before they were again forced into the roles of Mr. Gareth Mallory, MP and Ms. Rosalind Myers, MI-6 case officer. It was disconcerting how little he knew of her when she had such a hold on him. She ran her fingers through his hair, then down his shoulders and back. The room was so still around them. Their private interactions always felt removed from the world. Atemporal. It was only when they came back together that he could believe these brief moments really happened.

When her palms graced his cheeks, he leaned back. Her lips were slightly parted and her eyes bright. She looked so very kissable. He stood up, bringing his body flush against her. Ros’s breathing quickened and she couldn’t stop looking at his mouth, he knew if he made his move, it wouldn’t be unwelcome.

A noise at the door caused them to jump apart. She was shaking, he realised with a lurching sense of regret. He’d never in his life been faced with a personal conflict of this magnitude. He’d been naive at the onset. This began the moment she lashed out at the committee hearing, and it seemed his attraction to her was reciprocated.

She was away from him and halfway out the door without another word. Gareth Mallory picked up his remaining whiskey and downed it, feeling like a condemned man.

* * *

The end of February brought predictably terrible weather--the rain didn’t let up for days. Their flight back got tossed around by turbulence and Gareth was slack with relief when the plane finally landed and taxied. Elaine was there as promised, she was in high spirits as she kissed him. She took his duffel bag and greeted his colleagues. The security team was seeing to the checked luggage and it seemed that David and Sam fetched most of the suitcases.

“Thanks very much, gentlemen. Where’s Rosalind?” Martha asked. Gareth glanced at his shoes as he waited for the answer.

“There’s been an emergency in the office and she was called in.” David said as he handed her her bags. It was impossible to tell if David told the truth. Gareth bade the group goodbye and took Elaine by the hand to find their car. The drive home was mercifully quick.

“There’s pot roast in the oven and mashed peas in the fridge.” Elaine said as she took his coat off his shoulders. He thanked her quietly and ate as much as he could, though he hardly tasted anything. His wife noticed his mood but attributed it to the toll that long travel took on people. She could hardly know about the extent of his inner turmoil.

Four years of Elaine had just been unceremoniously blown out of the water by seven days with Ros Myers. He lay awake in bed that night as his wife slumbered peacefully at his side. There was his upcoming reelection campaign, then election day, Elaine’s art competition, laws to evaluate, bills to write, agencies to regulate...

His connection with Ros brimmed with something he’d never quite experienced with another person. All it would take was one slip, and he knew he’d be absolutely insatiable. He was not a man who loved in halves. Elaine was his world before it was knocked off its axis. The guilt tore at him. This was not the man he wanted to be, it was not the man he ever imagined himself to be.

Ros was right to have walked away. She was a phantom, shrouded in the secrecy of her profession. Gareth placed an arm around Elaine, holding her close, and finally fell asleep.

* * *

June 1996

He was walking along the Albert embankment on the Thames, preparing to cross Westminster Bridge when his mobile rang. He didn’t bother to screen the call as he usually did, he was distracted by a group of schoolchildren. They were walking in the opposite direction and he had to dodge some of the unruly students. He smiled at the harried teacher who apologised needlessly and he took the call.

“This is Mallory.”

“...Gareth.”

He stopped dead in his tracks, in the middle of the bridge. Streams of people passed him without a second glance.

“Ros.” When all he got was silence, he grew concerned, “Are you okay?”

“I’ve been assigned elsewhere. I’m..I leave in two days.” She spoke firmly. As if it were an imposition to speak with him, as if she wasn’t the one who called in the first place. He bristled inwardly.

“Where?” He couldn’t help asking.

“I don’t want to lie. Not to you.”

Well. He turned in the direction he knew the MI-6 building was at Vauxhall Cross. He couldn’t see the green and tan building but he imagined her in an office somewhere inside, on the phone with him.

“Alright.”

There seemed to be nothing further to say. Too many months passed. He wanted more than anything to ask to see her. It would be pointless. She’d say no, for good reason. He suspected her reserves of self control were more impervious to temptation than his. Even with the railing of the bridge beneath his hand, he remembered the curve of her waist, her faint fragrance as he held her.

“Take care of yourself.” He urged her.

There was a soft huff of air that may have been a laugh. He relished it.

“You too. Goodbye Gareth.”

“Goodbye Ros.”

The media detected that the Rt. Honourable Gareth Mallory was considerably off during debate in the House that afternoon. His advisors and staff watched haplessly from the office on their television screens. When he met with his chief, he could see the unvoiced disappointment in his eyes. Only Gareth knew the reason for his poor performance, and the hollow feeling that he couldn’t seem to shake.

* * *

 

* Ros asks the little girl, "Are you sure your mother left? Maybe she'll be back soon." The girl replies, "Ma'am, please, I'm scared."


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fast forward to 2005. An operation takes an ethically questionable turn. Gareth thinks he's seen it all by now, but he finds himself in for a nasty shock. Also, 007 and Judi Dench's M make an appearance!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got in a lot of writing time this weekend since work's been slow. This chapter became a lot more technical and political than I thought. I was in London during 7/7 and do not take what happened lightly. I've altered the outcome of that day for the sake of the story, but I don't intend to offend any readers who may have been affected by the horror of that day. Warnings for violence, foul language, and an argument about the moral ambiguities of spying during the war on terror. Please let me know what you think!

_“Non faciat malum, ut inde veniat bonum.”_

_(You are not to do evil that good may come of it.)_

-Juvenal

* * *

 2005

This was hardly the first time he’d been invited to the Cabinet Office Briefing Room. It was, however, the most worrisome to date. As the second most senior MP on the Intelligence and Security Committee, Gareth Mallory had clearance to be present during particularly sensitive intelligence operations.

The foreign policy landscape had changed vastly in the past decade. The invasion of Iraq blew the top off a can of worms and found there were all manner of snakes instead. Mallory was between a rock and hard place in the runup to the vote that decided whether the UK would launch a military campaign against the Hussein government. He voted with the majority, he and his colleagues believed the intel spoke for itself, yellowcake uranium had been shipped from Niger to Iraq.

The more vocal critics among his constituency ripped him in the press, stating that he’d caved to pressure from the Prime Minister, with whom he grew increasingly more cosy. They accused him of putting his career over conscience. At the time, he was stung by those reports. He always carried on the work of the people to the best of his ability and always by the highest ethical standards. The vehement disapproval from the international community grew to a crescendo when the White House admitted fabricating the evidence about Iraq’s purchase of uranium in Africa.

Mallory recalled watching that press release alone in his office. The rumblings from MI-6, MI-5 and GCHQ that undermined what the government insisted to be true coalesced into one horrific realisation in his head. They’d known all along that there were no weapons of mass destruction, or had at least instinctively known. Instead of siding with those of his colleagues who opposed war, he shut up and let events run their course.

Gareth struggled with this crisis of conscience every time the Committee was briefed on the number of casualties for both sides, suicide bombings, foreign fighters, sectarian violence between Sunnis and Shias, the destabilisation of the region... His home life saved him. He reaffirmed to himself Elaine was the still point of a madly turning world. She kept him grounded through it all. His job required more and more travel. He liaised with other European intelligence services and most frequently with the Americans. Gareth found himself in Washington more often than he’d wanted.

Because he worked hard, Gareth was deeply respected by his chairman. Differences in political beliefs aside, Chairman Alain Deacon recognised and rewarded his work ethic. The man ruled with an iron fist and got results, something that the Prime Minister and the Cabinet needed and relied upon. So Gareth sat at the elongated table in the Cabinet Office Briefing Room A, or COBRA. He hated those stupid acronyms, but the rise in professional stature seemed to entail the abbreviation of nearly everything. He and Chairman Deacon represented the ISC while senior members of the Joint Intel Committee were present as well. Others at the table comprised the Foreign Secretary, the Director General of MI-5, and the head of MI-6, MoD leadership, and their respective assessment staffers. A formidable group to be sure. Gareth was sure they’d be able to hear a pin drop with how thick the silence was.

All eyes were trained on the large screen in front of them. An MI-6 op was playing out before their eyes. Two 00 agents were in an undisclosed location. Even the people in this room were unaware of the exact coordinates, in order to be able to claim plausible deniability if the whole thing went tits up. The agents wore masks that only revealed their eyes and mouth, but they were told it was 006 and 007 who were the leads on the op. There was no noise except for the faint crackling of the connection. The camera was fastened to one of the agents’ gear, presenting them with a decent view of what was happening.

A man was bound, gagged and blindfolded on the floor between the two 00s. He seemed to be unconscious until the visible 00 agent aimed a swift kick to his midsection. The man emitted a pitiful groan, showing he was awake. He began to scream but it was muffled by the rag stuffed in his mouth. The man would be pissing blood for weeks.

Gareth’s stomach turned. His experience in captivity under the brutality of the IRA was not unlike this scenario. He was sure his face betrayed nothing, but his grip on his pen tightened until his knuckles turned white. M’s countenance gave nothing away either. The woman could turn water into ice with a single glance. These were her agents and it was clear she absolutely believed in their mission.

“Mr. Khan, I think you know why you’re here.” The 00 who delivered the kick turned out to be female. She spoke in whispers, but the mic was good enough to pick up every word. She removed the gag and tossed it aside, leaving the man’s blindfold in place.

“Go to hell!” The man screamed, doubled over on the floor. He was scared but knew to expect violence. Gareth had a sinking feeling he knew how this would end. The stakes were high, they needed the information this man had. God help them if he didn’t, and they nabbed a false lead.

The 00 wearing the camera spoke up. 007's voice was threatening for its utter clinicality. He sounded like he could be ordering a drink, not like he was about to commit torture. “We know you don’t fear death, Mr. Khan, but we have the means to make you wish for it.”

“There’s nothing you can do now. The plan is in place and our martyrs are ready to carry out their orders!”

The female 00 was deliberately pacing with her gloved hands clasped behind her back. She seemed just as composed as her fellow agent. Gareth observed her manner of walking, all in fitted black she resembled a panther biding its time before a strike. Something in him reacted to it on a visceral level. He was frozen in place, there was so much riding on the shoulders of these agents. The man they were interrogating purportedly had information about an al-Qaeda plot to bomb London within the next two days. A series of coordinated bombings in the heart of the city would result in untold casualties of innocents. Foreign policy missteps aside, British citizens didn’t deserve to die in such senseless violence. The 00s were authorised to kill, but this mission called for extraction of vital intelligence. 006 and 007 were the best and brightest of their cohort. Gareth didn’t believe in God but if ever there was a time he wished a greater power could intercede on their behalf, it was now.

The woman moved so fast that several people in the room jumped when she aimed another kick to Khan’s midsection without missing a beat. 007 didn’t react, letting her take charge.

“All we need are names and locations. You tell us who your co-conspirators are and where they plan to detonate their explosives, and we let you go.”

“Bullshit!”

“We know you’re not afraid to die. There’s very little I can do to reason with that sort of conviction. I frankly don’t have that kind of time.” She stood directly above the man now, speaking down at him, “If you decide not to tell us, we will turn you over to the Egyptian security service. Al-qaeda's bomb in Cairo last month killed forty people, Mohammad. How does a stint in an Egyptian prison sound?”

Khan went quiet, then. 006 may have hit a nerve, yet no information was forthcoming. 007 knew they had to move it along. The clock was ticking.

“Time’s up. When we leave, our counterparts from the Mukhabarat will have a go at you and you’ll be taken to Cairo.” He said, walking around where Khan lay as if preparing to leave. He continued to face the middle of the room for their benefit, so they could see 006 and Khan.

006 knelt next to Khan, her elbows on her knees in a contemplative pose. “Just think...all those other inmates, awaiting your arrival. When they learn your deeds may have killed their mothers, children, parents, and believe me, they will know exactly who you are, you think you’ll make friends? You think the guards will protect you? A British-born kid who’s only left home once to holiday in Afghanistan because you thought radicalisation was trendy?”

007 added, "The UK diplomatic corps won't be quick to come to your rescue. If they do ever find out what happened to you, you'll just be thrown from one prison into another."

They had the names and locations in a matter of minutes. The analysts in the COBRA hurriedly inputted everything into their laptops and got to work. Gareth exhaled in tentative relief. Everyone looked around with small, grim smiles. M didn’t move. Her eyes were still fixed to the screen.

“Come on, we’re done here.” 006 rose to her feet and went to the door of the interrogation room. She pulled it open and two men in identical uniforms entered, to whom she said blithely, “He’s all yours.”

007 stood aside as the men hauled Khan up and removed his blindfold. When Khan got wind of what was happening, he began to scream and scream. He resisted his Egyptian captors but to no avail, they took him from the room and out of the camera’s sight.

“You promised! You fucking bitch, you promised! You can’t let them do this!” The screams echoed until Khan went ominously silent.

“That’s a new low, even for you.” 007 said. He was hardly a stranger to the dirty reality of intelligence work, but there was something about 006’s ruthlessness that even he questioned from time to  time. Notorious as he was, 007 was more about ostentatious displays of bravery. 006 radiated subtlety until the very last second. Her target never knew she was after them, not until the bitter end. 007 turned to his colleague, who took off her mask. She faced 007, and the camera, head on. Gareth couldn’t believe his eyes and he was aware he was gaping. From the camera angle, it was as if she were talking directly to him.

“For Queen and country.” Rosalind Myers retorted. “I told him we’d let him go. I just didn’t say to whom. Enough semantics, it isn’t over yet. We have work to do.”

The camera went dead. The lights in the COBRA went up, prompting Gareth to get a handle on his emotions before anyone could notice.

“Quite an agent you’ve got, M.” The Foreign Secretary muttered. He was also a touch unsettled by what just transpired and the fact that he was privy to it.

M finally turned away from the screen. “We do what needs to be done. Rest assured that London will not go up in flames in the next twenty four to forty eight hours.”

The room began to clear out. Gareth stared at the blank screen in shock. He’d never tried to find out what became of her or where she was stationed. He’d been unaware she’d attained 00 status. He did however follow the casework of 6’s agents. 006 was a force to be reckoned with, and specialised in the Eurasian theatre. She’d spent a long time in hardship zones. In a way, he was thankful he didn’t know Ros was 006 until now.

“Mallory, are you coming?” Deacon barked impatiently. “We have votes in an hour.”

“How can we be complicit in this? That was a British citizen.” Gareth snapped.

“A British citizen with a proven history of criminal terrorist acts, who admitted on camera to conspiracy to murder. Bond had a point about us leaving him there to rot. You think Khan would lose one night of sleep if the positions were reversed?” Deacon glared at him. “This is a new era, Mallory. I shouldn’t have to tell you that.”

The short journey to the House of Commons from the Cabinet Office was second nature by now. He put one foot in front of the other to keep pace with Deacon, feeling like he’d been forced out of his own skin. He was awash in violently conflicting desires. Above all, he wanted to know the horrors she must have seen, maybe even been a part of. He was disgusted by himself, by his choices, by what he just witnessed, yet after all these years, he found that he still wanted Ros Myers.

* * *

Gareth arrived home at an ungodly hour of the evening. It was the new normal ever since the 7/7 bombings were partially stopped. All but one of the bombs were stopped, their source hadn’t known about the extra one. Twenty two people were killed in Russell Square.

He unlocked the front door and disarmed the security system that Elaine had had installed after she started travelling more often for work. Their trips sometimes coincided, meaning their home went uninhabited for various amounts of time. Gareth was glad his wife was away, largely because the terror threat was still so high pending how much special forces and the security services could accomplish.

He went to the bar cart he kept in his study and poured himself a glass of scotch. Sinking into the couch, he nursed the glass and stared into the amber liquid. When he first stood for Parliament, he was so convinced he’d make life better for the people he sought to represent. Now he felt like he was knee-deep in so much muck he wasn’t sure he’d ever get clean again.

His glass was half empty when he heard the doorbell downstairs ring. Frowning, he paused for a second before putting down his scotch and heading to the first floor. There was a shadow at the door, but the decor on the glass prevented him from seeing who it was. Against his better judgment, Gareth opened it.

“You’ve got to be joking.” He ground out.

“May I come in?”

“You shouldn’t _be_ out here!”

She wore a black overcoat that looked absurd considering it was a warm summer night. It contrasted dramatically with her fair colouring and her expression was wary. Gareth felt a bit hysterical when he thought she looked like a vampire. Maybe if he refused her entry, she'd be unable to overpower him. This was wholly surreal.

“Then let me in.” Ros said forcefully. Gareth looked behind her for signs that his neighbours or passersby had seen her. She scoffed, “Honestly, this isn’t my first time around the block,” as he stood aside at last and shut the door behind her.

“Why are you here?” He asked hotly. That she knew where to find him wasn't shocking given her resourcefulness. He wasn’t in the mood to spar with her, or to be confronted by the multitude of clashing feelings she always inspired in him. He despised that about her hold over him; her ability to insinuate herself into his most private thoughts.

“I was informed you were privy to the taped interrogation.” Ros didn’t need to clarify which one.

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“Shall I expect to be dragged before the committee in the near future?”

He growled and left her standing in the foyer, stalking up the stairs back to his study. He knew she’d follow him, but he was still surprised when he turned around to find her at his heels. He grabbed his glass of scotch and finished it before refilling it from the crystal decanter that had been a gift from Elaine.

“Gareth.” The way she spoke his name chipped away at his resolve to ignore her.

When he did nothing, she just shrugged out of her coat. She was in a silk blouse the color of red wine and black slacks. What he assumed to be high heels added three or four inches to her height, and she was very nearly of equal height with him.

“Extraordinary renditions? Extrajudicial torture?” His tone was more plaintive than he meant it to be. He sipped at his glass, enjoying the burn down his throat. “Is this what it’s come to?”

She took umbrage at that. “How dare you!”

“We cannot be above the law! Otherwise where do you draw the line? This will become the new norm, British citizens will be fair game, and the intelligence services will be all but unstoppable. We’ll be no better than the Gestapo under Hitler-”

“This is war, you of all people should know-”

“Me, of all people?!”

“D’you think I don’t know what you did, _Lieutenant Colonel_ Mallory,” She spat his title back at him, “To the IRA operatives you had apprehended in the eighties? How is that different from what is standard procedure now? You tell me why you get to sit up on your fucking high horse and preach to me."

"I never enjoyed it!" He roared. She took a step back, unused to hearing him raise his voice at her. He regretted taking that tone with her as soon as he'd done it.

"That's what this is about? You think I--no, you know what, you're right. I _do_ love my job." Her confession dripped with sarcasm. 

"Well, maybe you should take a step back to see the bigger picture. If you continue down this road, you will lose your perspective and by then it will be too late. You'll have to live with what you've done."

"Like you do, you mean?" She took two steps forward in accusation.

"Yes!" Again, he shouted, and regretted it. She didn't back away this time though. Instead, her shoulders dropped as if all the fight had left her. She took a sweeping glance around his study, taking in the wood-paneled walls, masculine furniture, the bookshelves crammed almost beyond their capacity. Then she looked at him and he got the sense she was about to destroy him.

"I came here because this is the first I’ve been back to the UK for longer than a week since ‘96.”

A world of pain surfaced in her face at that last admission. Her expression crumpled and she was the nearest to tears he’d ever seen her. It was clear he'd wounded her. The reason why the footage had so disturbed him was because it was so terribly familiar to him. He was ashamed of what he’d done in the name of national security, and he feared for what this would do to her in the long run.

“I came here,” She said with a tremor, “Because I wanted to see you.”

He set the glass down and as soon as it left his hand, he was walking toward her with open arms. She collapsed against him, face buried in his neck, and he could feel the stress and fear pouring out of her as she cried. He knew each and every one of those twenty two lives lost in Russell Square weighed on her soul. He brought a hand up to the back of her head, supporting its weight and his other stayed at her back.

“I’m sorry,” Gareth whispered, “I’m glad you’re here...I’m sorry.”

He walked them backward until the backs of their legs touched the couch. He carefully maneuvered them down until they were sitting, and Ros nestled into his side. His arm wrapped around her shoulders and she held onto his free hand with both of hers.

They didn’t speak at all. Her perfume was the same scent he recognised. It lingered in the air around them as her sobs grew quieter until they stopped. He freed his hand from her grip to gently wipe at her cheeks. She wore no makeup, her skin was soft under his thumb.

Gareth held himself back as he noticed the look on Ros’s face. She shifted to face him better but didn’t leave his side.

“Your wife?” Ros whispered.

"She's out of town." Gareth replied. The tension was unbearable, both of them were undone by the breakneck speed of their argument and were acutely cognisant of the fact that they hadn’t seen each other in ten years.

“I don’t have the strength to walk away from you again, Gareth.” The admission was wrenched from her. She was placing her trust in him to do the right thing.

“We have a guest room here. Elaine isn’t due back until the weekend. Stay here tonight.” He rested his forehead against hers and closed his eyes. She sighed and relaxed in his arms. They sat like that, together in his study, until he could no longer battle his exhaustion. He showed her the guest bedroom and gave her one of his pyjama sets to wear. The adjoining bathroom contained everything she might need.

Ros stood beside the bed, staring at the dainty pattern on the comforter.

“If you need me, I’m just two doors down.” Gareth told her. The unspoken agreement hung heavy between them. This was his home with Elaine. Nothing untoward would happen here. Ros wrapped her arms around her middle as if she didn’t trust herself alone with him. This was the most vulnerable he’d ever seen her.

“Good night.” He turned and left her there, shutting the door behind him. He didn’t sleep a wink, and when he rose at dawn, there was no evidence she’d been there except for his neatly folded pyjama set left on the guest bed.


	7. Chapter 7, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mallory has risen to the chairmanship of the Intel and Security Committee, but the fruit of his labor comes at a bitter price: separation and divorce from his wife. He is privileged to have the ear of the Home Secretary, at whose office he runs into two familiar faces. Guest appearances from Spooks characters Harry Pearce and Nicholas Blake. References to Spooks episodes abound, though I tried to write it such that you don't have to know the show well to understand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first part of Chapter 7. The chapter was getting too long and very emotionally charged so I split it up. Please let me know what you think! :)

_“Longing, how soft a word for such a ravenous feeling._

_How we hunger in silence.”_

-Pavana

* * *

2008

“Chairman Mallory, the Home Secretary is just finishing up with his one o’clock. Would you care for any water or coffee?” The office assistant asked. She was sat at her desk in the outer office when Gareth entered. She stood before him now, eying the door to the inner office with a touch of nervousness.

“No thank you, Sarah. I’m perfectly fine to wait.” He said in what he hoped was a reassuring tone. She smiled as if pleased he remembered her name and welcomed him to have a seat on the sofa opposite her.

Gareth preferred to stand, particularly after a morning spent buried in paperwork in his own office. He stared out the window to watch government workers traverse the slate grey rotunda of the Home Office. His promotion to Chair of the ISC ensured he was a regular visitor of the Home Secretary Nicholas Blake. The man was conscientious, a trait that Gareth very much appreciated in a superior. Gareth’s predecessor Alain Deacon retired from Parliament, citing health concerns, and Gareth was appointed shortly thereafter.

Six months into his tenure, he felt confident in his authority. His time in the House of Commons prepared him well for this although the new level of responsibility was bittersweet for him. Elaine did not react well to the news. Seventeen years of marriage to him was not enough to stop her from giving him an ultimatum; if he accepted his appointment, she’d ask for a divorce. Elaine stood by him through thick and thin and delayed her own entrepreneurial and creative aspirations for his sake. Their efforts to have children and start a family also fell by the wayside, hastening the end of their union.

 _“I just can’t do this anymore, Gareth. I can’t play second fiddle for the rest of my life.”_ Elaine had told him tearfully. He didn’t fight her, just acknowledged that she more than anyone deserved to live a full and happy life, and that no longer included him. When he finished helping her pack her belongings so she could move into her new flat, he was both relieved and heartbroken. He knew she’d always have a claim on him--their history would not be easily forgotten. Her art gallery thrived despite the financial crisis because of her hard work. He was proud of her in spite of it all. He could see how being married to him had limited her in ways he never considered before until he gained enough distance.

Just then, the door to the inner office swung open. Harry Pearce, the head of MI-5, stepped out. He looked the same as ever in a well-tailored suit and long black overcoat, but the frown lines on his face were markedly deeper. Gareth knew the man must’ve had a pressing reason to meet with the Home Secretary. Just after Pearce exited the inner office, he stepped aside to reveal a second individual...Rosalind Myers. She met Gareth’s eyes over Pearce’s shoulder, coming to stand at his side. Her stoic expression didn’t falter, he surveyed her blonde hair cropped just above her shoulders and her eyes lined sparingly with black. She donned a black leather jacket and dark denims, both garments fit her like a glove and showed off her physique. Gareth couldn’t imagine anyone else wearing the same gutsy outfit to meet one of the most powerful Cabinet ministers except her.

“Mallory, good to see you.” Pearce held out his hand and Gareth shook it amicably.

“Likewise. All is well, I hope?” He studiously kept his gaze trained on Pearce, but was almost hyper aware of the elusive woman’s presence.

“Well as one can be after contemplating this week’s brand of armageddon and how to stop it. Dum spiro, spero* and all that.” The man mused. “This is Rosalind Myers, one of my officers.”

Ros came toward them and they shook hands as if it were the first time they’d met. He followed her lead, powerless to do anything else.

“I believe we may have met once or twice before.” Her eyes were mirrored glass as they flitted between him and Pearce. “I was seconded to MI-5 two years ago.”

“Not many have done what you have. Does the change of pace suit you?” Mallory asked. His casual tone belied the joy that coursed through him from the sight of her. Confusion was part of the mix of emotions too. She'd been a very prominent figure among the 00s. What happened that resulted in such a radical career change for her? He tried not to feel so ridiculous, like a gobsmacked teenager. As head of Counterterrorism, Pearce was a bloodhound for this sort of thing. Gareth knew if this exchange were prolonged, Pearce would suss it out. Ros smiled but it was far from genuine.

“Suits me just fine, thanks very much.” Her tone danced with false lightness. Just then, Harry’s mobile went off and he frowned as he checked the caller ID.

“So sorry, I have to take this. Afternoon, Mallory.” Harry put the phone to his ear and proceeded into the hallway. Whether he expected Ros to follow remained to be seen. The door to the outer office fell shut of its own accord and Sarah the office assistant went to inform her boss that Mallory was there. Ros and Gareth had at least a few seconds alone.

“Two _years_?” He whispered, desperate to maintain his composure. How was it he had no idea of her whereabouts yet she turned out to be right under his nose?

“Was I supposed to throw myself a party?” She hissed back. “My father was tossed in jail, my family name left in tatters. M wanted nothing to do with me and MI-5 offered me a second chance.”

He was taken aback. His staff informed him that Sir Jocelyn Myers pled guilty to tax evasion and other financial crimes since Myers was one of his oldest political donors. The staff worried that the association with the fallen mogul would get Mallory in trouble in the media. From the look on his daughter’s face, there was obviously more to the story. The faint sound of Sarah’s voice could be heard from the Home Secretary’s office. They were running out of time. The sudden urgency of the moment caused him to blurt out what he said next.

“Can we meet in private?” He watched as her eyes, so guarded, widened almost imperceptibly. She glanced down as if to examine her shoes and he had to strain to hear her reply.

“Friday at eight, 26 New End on the Heath.”

He burned the address into his memory. There were two entire days until then. Lifetimes. Ros looked up and smiled, professional facade back in place. “Chairman.” She said at a normal decibel. With that, she turned on her heel and exited the office.

Gareth fidgeted with his tie and tugged at the hem of his jacket, just as Sarah came out.

“The Home Secretary will see you now.” She said as she took her place behind her desk. Gareth focused on the discussion he planned to have with Nicholas Blake, mostly regarding the budget scenarios for the Security Services and the upcoming fiscal year. As Chairman, it was his responsibility to brief the Cabinet officials on all issues pertaining to the UK intelligence machine no matter how mundane.

He went in, exchanged brief pleasantries, and sat in front of the Home Secretary’s desk. Charts, figures, percentages were easy to explain. All the while, the memory of her whispered address kept replaying itself in the back of his mind.

_26 New End, Hampstead Heath._

* * *

  **Chapter 7, Part II will answer many questions that Gareth has for Ros. I hope you stay tuned!**

*”Dum spiro, spero” is the Latin proverb meaning “While I breathe, I hope.” Harry means that as long as he’s breathing, there’s reason to hope the Security Services can save the day, so to speak.

For those of you who’re unfamiliar with Spooks and/or curious about Ros Myers, here are a few clips from Spooks that show her in action in all her snarky glory:

Ros interrogating an assassin: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B1KAvGK7egI>

Ros’s psychological assessment: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tB9ElTiXn94>

Ros and her MI5 colleague chatting while planting a listening device: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7P9uNKyMZPU>   


	8. Chapter 7, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ros lets Gareth into her new life, something not easily done for a seasoned spook. She reveals the true reason why she gave up her 00 cover at MI-6 and why her father was imprisoned, both unmistakably intertwined. They stand on the precipice of a second chance, and no risk is too great in Mallory's opinion. Will his faith in Ros be justified?
> 
> Warning: Scenes of an adult nature ahead. (Smut!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not too much plot here, more focus on the romance that's finally permissible! The opening quote comes from the famous spy author John LeCarre, who Ralph Fiennes mentioned he loved in an interview for Spectre. Hope you enjoy and thanks for reading.

“ _Do you know what love is? I'll tell you: it is whatever you can still betray.”_

― John le Carré

* * *

 

 

Friday, at last.

It was a frigid December night with the kind of wind that got under the skin down to the very bones. This mattered not a whit to Gareth as he made his way up to Hampstead at precisely half six from Westminster. He drove circuitously out of habit to avoid possible surveillance. Finding parking on the street, he saw her place was a handsome red brick building covered with vines of climbing ivy. Gareth walked past the black cast iron fence that lined the front of the property and through the open gate.

Ros was at the door before he could ring the bell. She was luminous in the half light of the entryway. From the top of the steps, he leaned toward her to kiss her cheek in greeting. He thought he felt the press of her own lips on his cheek, the ghost of an answer, but the contact was over before he could know for certain.

Once he was inside, he took in his surroundings. The stairs were to the left and there were three doors to the right down the corridor. From behind him, Ros mentioned, “The living room and kitchen are through the middle.”

He removed his coat and scarf and hung them on the mounted hooks on the wall. She walked past him and disappeared through the middle door. Gareth followed and found her at the stove in the spacious kitchen. The scent of garlic and herbs were prominent, perhaps it was stew she had on. He noticed there were hardly any furniture or clutter, from what little he’d seen of the place. While the rest of her home was rather minimalist, the kitchen was a feast for the senses. The sconce lighting cast a welcoming glow on the cosy burgundy walls. There were remnants of her ingredient preparation on the dark wood counters topped with  grey marble. The winter wind couldn’t touch them here.

“There’s wine on the table, if you’d make yourself useful.” Ros said, a bit distracted as she took a heap of sliced mushrooms from a chopping board and slid them carefully into the pot. She placed the large glass lid over it halfway, lowered the fire to let the stew simmer and set the little plastic timer.

He went to the small rectangular dining table where there were indeed two stemless glasses and a half empty bottle of pinot noir. After uncorking it, he poured generously into both glasses and carried them over to her. She leaned with one hip against the counter. As he handed her the second glass, he marveled that this all felt so natural. It felt like they’d done this a thousand times before.

“Where to start?” Ros asked.

Gareth was glad it was rhetorical. He truly didn’t know. Instead of answering, he raised the glass to his mouth and drank. He shut his eyes for a moment, savouring the taste.

“God, that’s good.” He sighed. When he opened his eyes, he caught her faint blush. Ros didn’t look away but he could tell his voice affected her. It was a heady feeling, knowing he could invoke such a reaction from her. “I like it here. It’s quiet.” Gareth added. She accepted his lead and took a sip of her own wine.

“My mother left this property to me when she died. I just never really lived here until I came back to London in 2006. I brought an asset here once on an emergency basis. He told me he hated safehouses. I didn’t tell him I actually lived here.”

Gareth laughed, imagining the sardonic response she must have had ready.

“In all seriousness, I’m glad you’re based domestically.” He said. The grin on her face faded and her eyes grew troubled. He couldn’t push this. He needed to tread cautiously. Demanding to know what happened would cause her to throw the walls up and he knew they’d be impossible to breach if she did.

“It’s strange, being able to give my real name at all. I don’t think I’ll ever fully get used to not being 006."

"Have you needed cover to work operations?" 

"On occasion. But I'm allowed to fill in the details with the personal. Legends are somewhat more negotiable." 

"That must have been hard at first."

Ros just shrugged.

"I’m not a very introspective person. I could never afford to be until now.”

“Like a breath of fresh air after a long time underwater I’d imagine.”

“Yeah. Something like that.” Ros murmured. She sipped again at her wine. Suddenly, she put the glass on the countertop and he could tell she was done with pretense. “Do you remember the student rioting in 2006?”

He frowned. That wasn’t what he expected. “...Erm, yeah. The PM’s son marched with the crowds, Special Branch and CO19 had a field day.”

Ros nodded. “Those protests were manipulated by the efforts of high-ranking members of the intelligence and business communities, and media. This elite group tried to force a coup d’etat, they had the means to effectively control the PM and his closest advisors. They bribed, murdered, and blackmailed to ensure their plans went through. ”

He took a moment to process that. He recalled the unease in Parliament at that time. Debate focused heavily on civil liberties in the context of the war on terror. A vocal Labour MP who spearheaded civil liberties legislation committed suicide and was smeared as a paedophile in the press.

“That group was formed by my father and Michael Collingwood.” She bit out.

A creeping sense of dread began to take hold on him. Collingwood frequently represented MI-6 in M’s stead during sessions of the Joint Intelligence Committee as well as the ISC. He didn’t know him well, just that the man had extreme views of how much power the security services ought to have. Collingwood was found dead hanging by his belt in a deserted warehouse that same year. The subsequent investigation into his death mysteriously petered out before any details came to light.

“I’d heard rumours,” Gareth said carefully,”But they were never substantiated.”

“Consider me your inside source. I was one of the weapons in their arsenal. My actions led to the death of an MI-5 desk officer and the near deaths of Harry Pearce, the Home Secretary, and the PM’s son.”

Gareth set his wineglass down before he dropped it. He was speechless. A conversation they had years ago in Peru came to mind. How she was never afraid to resort to drastic measures to get results, and the way she conducted that interrogation in the runup to 7/7. He could absolutely believe her.

She looked pale and anxious, but she continued. “The coup was rendered impotent by Harry Pearce and his team. His Section chief recruited me out of pity, maybe. He knew my career at 6 was over.  I was in such deep shit, I’d burned one too many bridges all in the name of a cause that turned out to be predicated on lies.”

“Christ, Ros-” He began. He loosened his tie, constricting as it was around his throat. The image of Collingwood with a belt around his neck wasn’t easy to dispel.

“I’ve since paid my dues. I’ve earned my stripes amongst Harry’s team. But I will forever bear the burden of knowing what I did.” Despite her level tone, he could tell how hard it was for her to verbalise this.

“My father went away for tax evasion only after I begged for all the other charges to be removed from the official record. He will die in there.” A single tear rolled down her cheek. “But his goal of redefining British democracy turned out to be motivated by his financial ties to the Russian mafia. My father’s contacts stood to profit from upheaval in the British political environment. I knew then that I couldn’t go any further.”

Ros brushed the tear away and turned back to the stove. The stew was nearly done. She turned the fire off and removed the lid, ladling a bowl and wordlessly handing it to him. It turned out to be beef bourguignon. He brought it to the table and put it down, then went back to the counter for their wine. Gareth was at a loss for words. She followed soon after, holding her own bowl and a pair of utensils for both of them.

“The cover up was obviously extensive enough that even I didn’t question all of the connections between the pieces.” He finally managed to say. He picked up his fork and started to eat. He found her cooking to be as delicious as the aroma hinted. It bought him time to observe her. She left her bowl untouched and instead took her wineglass in hand to drain it.

“It was kindness that I didn’t deserve. I betrayed my country for my father’s dream, and I betrayed my father because I knew it was wrong.”

“Harry Pearce is nothing if not an excellent judge of character, and the Home Secretary one of the most upstanding men among the politicians I know. They trust you, however long it took them to get there, they trust you enough to keep you close.”

She laughed quietly. It was the sound of someone who spent a long time coming to terms with their sins.

“Well, anyway. That’s me, take it or leave it. Rosalind Sarah Myers. 006 no longer.”

“Thank you.” Gareth said simply. Opening herself up to him like this violated every instinct she’d honed for self-preservation. It went without saying that she’d done grievous wrongs. She was self-aware enough to understand that. He was grateful she trusted him to form his own opinion. That she would risk his esteem for the sake of honesty between them. As honest as a spy and a career politician could be with each other.

“This is amazing, by the way.” He took another bite of stew. She laughed again. This time, it sounded like pure relief. He saw her glance at his left hand, sans wedding ring.

“Elaine and I divorced after I was appointed Chairman. She...she’d had enough of this life, I’m afraid.”

Ros’s expression became sympathetic. She covered his hand that rested on the table and said, “I’m so sorry.”

“I think she’s far happier now. At least she has the opportunity to be, far more than she would’ve had if she stayed. My ambition consumed us. It came to the point where she felt what was left was unsalvageable. She was right.” After Ros’s display of candour, Gareth found it easy to show her the same courtesy.

“You loved her enough to make the choice to let her go.” Ros offered. She seemed conflicted, hesitant to weigh in given the nature of their own ambiguous relationship. They were on the edge of a new world.

“My shortcomings as a husband were needlessly cruel to her. I am not an easy man to love.”

“No, you’re not.”

They held each other’s gazes for almost a second too long before turning back to their meals. The rest of their dinner passed without further discussion. Wineglasses and bowls empty, Ros stood and gathered it all to take to the sink. She began the washing up. Gareth went about cleaning her counter space, bringing all of the soiled dishes and knives to the sink and tossing leftover ingredients into the bin.

They made quick work of it. He watched as she put the last plate in the drying rack. She’d pulled up the sleeves of her cream coloured jumper, which dipped low to reveal the back of her neck and the perfect flesh between her shoulder blades.

He moved close to touch his lips to her neck, ready to back off if he was unwelcome. She gasped softly in surprise but twisted around to face him.

“You should know I’m not an easy woman to love, either.” Ros looked into his eyes, haunted by the mistakes of her past. Gareth knew her, her complexities and failings, and what he said next had the full weight of his conviction.

“Nothing would make me happier than to try.” He answered.

They came together in a crushing kiss, red wine and lust indistinguishable from one another. Her hands were warm and slightly damp from the sink water as she pulled him to her. He didn’t care. All that mattered was that she kept him right where he was, pinning her firmly against the counter and kissing her senselessly. He moved from her lips to her jaw and beautiful neck, encouraged by the quiet sighs of pleasure that graced his ear.

When he straightened up, his breathing was significantly laboured. Ros’s chest rose and fell quickly with her breaths too. She looked well and truly kissed; her eyes bright, hair mussed and skin flushed in all the places he’d mapped with his lips.

The journey to her bedroom was fraught with their clumsy attempts to undress, she started with his suit jacket, wresting the buttons open and pushing it off his shoulders before getting him to take off his vest. He removed his own tie after she nearly garroted him in her attempt, causing both of them to laugh giddily. She had his shirt open and untucked so she could run her palms over his shoulders, chest and abdomen, stopping just at his belt buckle. A gentle hand over the bulge in his trousers caused him to groan from the effort of restraining himself. The urge to grind crudely into her touch was becoming a reality.

“Let’s get this off you.” Gareth took the hem of her cashmere jumper and raised it over her head and off her arms, ruffling her short hair in the process. Looking at her nearly naked torso had him panting but he was too aroused to be embarrassed. She took advantage of his inaction to unbutton her jeans and step out of them. In only sleek lingerie, she was so exquisite that he could only stare in utter appreciation.

She took his hand and led him from the empty living room into the corridor and up the stairs. He kicked the bedroom door shut behind them and she went to turn on the lamp on the bedside table. When he turned to face her again, he was pleasantly shocked when she moved close to undo his belt and trouser zip. This time he couldn’t help thrusting into her hand. The urgency of his desire appeared to please her, from the way she stroked him through his boxers. His pants and socks soon joined the small pile of discarded garments.

Being totally naked under her scrutiny proved to be a bit nerve-wracking. He was suddenly self conscious. He kept trim by virtue of too many missed meals and an exercise routine he maintained since his army days, though he knew he looked his age. He saw the predatory look she wore and his concerns disappeared instantly.

The fine lace of her bra scratched his chest slightly but it was nothing compared to the pleasure of kissing her again. He was proud that he had enough finesse to unhook the clasp of her bra. She pulled away to slide the straps off her arms. He exhaled sharply at the sight of her breasts and cupped them softly, receiving a moan of approval from her.

Ros’s bedroom was the only other space in her house that received any decorating attention besides her kitchen. There was a queen-sized bed in the center, adorned with plush pillows and a white quilted duvet with a beige throw blanket on the bottom half. A pair of armchairs were positioned near her armoire. Perhaps they were inherited along with the house. Vintage prints from what looked like Latin America and the Middle East covered the large wall opposite the bed. The window above the headboard was covered by thick white curtains. The room was a perfect reflection of her, cultured and elegant.

“Ros,” He whispered, for no reason other than to say her name. He brushed his hands from her breasts around to her lower back, feeling the way her toned muscles moved. He rested them on her lace-covered bum and kissed her. He couldn’t get enough of kissing this woman. 

She smiled and pulled him to the mattress where they melted together. The wind picked up outside, howling noisily. He was so glad they were here, tangled in the warmth of each other. He urged her hips up so he could help her shed the last remaining piece of clothing between them.

“I don’t have a condom,” He whispered. It effectively slowed their momentum to consider this matter of practicality.

“I’m on the pill and I have a clean bill of health.” She answered breathlessly. She reclined on her back and kept a reassuring hand on his cheek. He trusted her more than anyone, he realised. All the years he kept himself away from her overrode any remaining sense of caution. He settled between her legs and shuddered when she took him in hand, then into her body.

“Fuck,” Ros moaned. The sound was the most decadent thing he’d heard-she was rarely profane. Gareth held himself as still as he could manage while inside her. Her hands clutched at his shoulders and she opened up her hips to take him deeper. He supported his weight on his forearms and bit his lip as he watched every little reaction flit across her face.

He thrust experimentally, trying to gauge what made her feel good. His efforts were rewarded by the pulse of her achingly wet flesh around his cock, ripples of pleasure long denied to both of them by life’s circumstances. It was a herculean effort to keep the rhythm he wanted. She practically writhed beneath him and sweat gathered at her brow, but she moved with him nonetheless.

“Gareth, _please_.” Her eyes were shut, mindless. He was almost as lost as she was. He could feel she wanted him to thrust harder, faster, but he knew that this teasing, leisurely pace would bring them both to the absolute height of bliss. Her nails dug into his back and her hips canted up to try to get more satisfying friction. In response, he balanced his weight on one forearm and brought his other hand down to press against her clit. The hitch of her breath told him she liked it so he moved his fingers in time with his hips.

It became a battle of wills, this slow dance of bodies. Of course it did, with two people as obstinate as them, who always tried to gain the upperhand in most life situations. He knew the longer they put off their release, the more powerful it'd be and he wanted nothing more than to bring her the highest possible pleasure. At some point, Ros suddenly arched into him, breasts pressed against his chest with a cry. His patience was rewarded when she came. He struggled to keep on with his long, slow, measured movements when confronted with the glorious force of her release.

“God,” She choked out when she came back to herself. He was still hard inside her but he stopped moving to let her recover. He bent down for a kiss which she granted readily, hot, open-mouthed, undeniably bold. They carried on like this for a time before he felt her shift beneath him.

"I want you again," She said.

That was why he was surprised when she pushed firmly against his chest. He moved off and out of her, bereft without her heat, but she urged him to lie on his back. When he realised what she wanted, his pulse raced anew.

He watched as she took her place on top of him, aligning herself with his length and sinking carefully onto it. Now it was her turn to observe how he reacted to her movement. He wondered if she’d torture him as he did her, with a pace that would have him writhing in frustration. She kept a hand on his chest for balance and the other came up to caress her own breasts. The motion inspired a thrill of pure want to run down his spine. His own hands traced paths up and down her slim thighs before they came to rest on her hips.

He finally tumbled headlong into an orgasm that left him gasping her name. She didn’t protest when his movements became erratic and the multitude of building sensations sent him careening off the edge. She collapsed onto him and he wrapped his arms around her. He waited until they caught their breath before nudging her off so she could settle comfortably into his side. They managed to get under the duvet as the cool air chilled their sweaty bodies.

 _I love you._ The thought and the emotion that went with it stayed with him as he drifted off to sleep in her arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think, please. :)


	9. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The storm passes, leaving Ros and Gareth to bask in newfound intimacy. Their roles in the intelligence world preclude them from any sort of public association beyond that of their professional one. How long before they're unable to separate their public and private lives? Forces out of their control loom large on the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm tying two plotlines together here--the beginning of Skyfall and Spooks' episode 8.8 (aka the Nightingale conspiracy). Thanks for reading and as always, let me know if anything's unclear or confusing.

“I held an atlas in my lap and whispered: where does it hurt?

It answered

_everywhere_

_everywhere_

_everywhere_.”

-Warsan Shire

* * *

 

When Gareth opened his eyes, he squinted in discomfort to find they’d forgotten to turn the lamp off. He carefully leaned over her sleeping form to switch it off. The morning light filtered in through the white curtains above their heads, a much more pleasant glow. It seemed the storm was over. Gareth indulged in the luxury of watching her sleep. He’d seen her angry, despairing, mischievous, concentrating, always in some state of forward motion. He’d seen her at the height of pleasure. Somehow, none of those times could compare to the way she looked now--wrapped up in the duvet, her breathing deep and calm.

He knew he couldn’t get away with this for too much longer. Soon enough Ros cracked open a bleary eye. She yawned but turned away, putting the back of her hand to her mouth to cover it.

“Good morning.” He whispered, loathe to disrupt the mood. He took his place beneath the duvet again so she didn’t get cold. Ros smiled, sleepy and dishevelled. A crease formed on her cheek overnight from a pillowcase pressing into it. His heart hurt to look at her--by then Gareth realised he was a maudlin fool.

“It is, isn’t it?” She raised her arms above her head to stretch. She hummed in contentment, muscles tensing then relaxing when she lay on her side so they were face to face. He ran a delicate touch over the curve of her hip, settling his hand gently on her waist.

“How do you feel?”

“A bit sore.” Ros admitted, “But happy. I’d forgotten what this is like.” She looked right at him at that.

There was no containing the maudlin side of himself. Gareth kissed her, ignoring her attempts to dodge him. They were shaking with laughter when she finally escaped him.

“Both of us have had better breath, Gareth.”

“Honestly, you are the only woman I know to be so particular with dental hygiene.”

Ros rolled her eyes and sat up, keeping the covers wrapped around her naked form. He relinquished his hold on her waist. “Maybe I’m trying to preserve the value of my kisses. Limit supply, increase demand.” She looked mildly amused. She traced a playful line from his forehead, down the bridge of his nose and stopped at his lips. He kissed the pad of her index finger before she drew her hand away.

Bantering with her this way was almost more indicative of their intimacy than their physical relationship. A thought suddenly occurred to him. One that’d been nagging at him from the back of his mind. He batted it away, unwilling to spoil their time together.

“Well it’s working. Demand’s never been higher.” Gareth smirked suggestively at her.

She laughed outright. “God, we’re so cheesy.”

He made a noise of agreement then grunted as he sat up too. It caused the duvet to fall off the both of them. In the daylight, he could see everything he missed in the heat of the moment. She remained just where she was, without a hint of shyness about her nudity. She watched him, watching her.

The long column of her neck met her shoulders in perfect confluence. The spots where he kissed her were faintly red, and the memory of leaving those marks sent a slight tremor through him. Her torso was proportioned beautifully. The sight of her breasts was no less stirring than the night before and her stomach was toned as befitted an active field agent.

There were remnants of the toll her career took on her body too. He thought of his own body and the damage done to it over the years in comparison to hers. There was a pattern of scars on her oblique from what may have been a sutured wound at one point. Someday he hoped to learn all of her: every story behind her scars. There was a moment of fleeting but intense grief for the pain each of them must have caused her.

The thought he’d been suppressing couldn’t go unaddressed any longer.

“Ros, we need to talk about the future.” Gareth said carefully. He fixed his gaze resolutely on her face. She leaned against the headboard and crossed her arms over her breasts but made no move to cover up despite the chilly morning air.

“Alright, let’s talk. I presume what’s troubling you is that you are British intelligence’s most eminent regulator.”

Gareth shouldn’t have been surprised by how little effort it took for Ros to read him, yet he found he was.

“Whilst I’m an intelligence operative for one of the agencies you are bound by oath to investigate, should there be any hint of misconduct or unsavoury behaviour.” She continued without any defensiveness.

“We’ll have to...to be discreet. Going forward.” Gareth cringed as the words left his mouth. She wasn’t meant to be his dirty little secret. A sordid affair was the last thing he had in mind where she was concerned. If ever their association came to light, her professional objectives would likely be far more damaged than his own as a result. He told himself that secrecy was in her best interest. Not because it was an easy way to have his cake and eat it, too.

“Of course. This is who we are, you and I.” Ros concurred. Even with her agreement, he couldn’t help lapsing into self recriminations. It was too easy of an out she gave him. He didn’t deserve it. Especially not when she’d just essentially affirmed she wanted to see him again. On a recurring basis. That there would be a future to look forward to with her.

Gareth wanted to tell her what he fell asleep thinking about. The words were stuck in his throat though, despite his maudlin streak he couldn’t quite get them out. Some part of him still feared what she could do to him, given how much power she had.

Before he could add anything more, she slid off the bed and padded across the carpet to where he assumed the bath was. Consistent with her nonchalance about being naked in front of him, she moved as if nothing were amiss. The rest of her was just as beautiful as he knew it would be. She didn’t completely shut the door but rather left it cracked open slightly. He could hear the sound of shower water hitting tile.

His mobile rang from somewhere on the floor where his trousers lay in a rumpled heap. Diving to fetch it, he answered it and brought it to his ear.

“This is Mallory.” He barked. It was a Saturday morning after all.

_“I apologise for disturbing you, sir. I was instructed to call you by the staff director if there were any changes in the witness panel for Monday’s hearing…”_

Gareth went back to the bed--Ros’s bed--and burrowed back into the sheets. The voice in his ear was an intruder in this sacred space. He could smell Ros’s shampoo among the pillowcases, subtle as it was, he was already attuned to it. He provided answers when necessary, his chairman persona one that he could summon at the drop of a hat.

When she emerged from the bath with damp hair and rosy cheeks, Gareth quite lost his ability to concentrate altogether. He ended the call abruptly when she sat on his side of the bed. She wore a white terry cloth robe and soft-looking sweatpants that peeked out from the bottom. The belt was tied loosely around her. He was tempted to tug it open.

“I hope your idea of discretion evolves past taking work-related calls in here.” Ros leaned in, eyes sultry. The scent of her shampoo, freshly washed, was the same scent he’d noticed on her pillows. It was dizzying up close, not quite cloying.

“It’s a secure line.” He hedged.

“You proposed your rule, now let me propose mine. No work, when we’re together. Unless it’s absolutely unavoidable.”

She was close enough for him to catch the spearmint toothpaste on her breath. Dental hygiene freak indeed, he chuckled to himself.

“Agreed.”

He thought she was about to kiss him when she suddenly moved out of his reach.

“The bath’s free--it’s your turn. I’m going downstairs to make breakfast.”

He must have looked pole-axed.The sound of her laughter trailed behind her as she darted out of the room, causing him to fall back on the bed in mock-exasperation.

* * *

When he made his way downstairs, his appetite roared to life at the mouth watering aroma of a classic fry-up. Indeed, she’d somehow fixed two plates with generous portions of bacon, tomatoes, beans, sausages and eggs in the time it took him to have a shower and shave. Finding clothes to wear was a bit of an issue. She had a spare robe for him but he had to hunt for all of his discarded clothes, all the while remembering exactly how they got there.

He ended up wearing his trousers and dress shirt untucked with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He went to where he guessed she kept bread, in a metal bin near the fridge, and went about making them toast.

Ros poured two mugs of steaming hot coffee and took them to the same table where they ate last night. He waited until the toaster popped so he could pluck the warm bread out and hurry over to their plates to deposit them.

“You’ve done the cooking two meals in a row. Let me do it next time.” Gareth said appreciatively as he spread marmalade onto his toast. Ros poured a splash of milk into her coffee and stirred. She offered him the cream but he declined, preferring his black.

Ros sipped at her coffee and cradled the mug between her palms. “Okay.” She said simply. He risked a glance at her. She looked the same as when she admitted she was happy, there was that quiet glow of well-being that he’d never seen before.

“What did you have planned today?” He asked between bites. He truly was hungry, it didn’t take him long to devour half his plate.

“Not much…” Ros seemed sheepish now. “I may have had a few things to take care of in the office.”

Gareth sat back to fix her with a pointed look. “Hello pot? I’m kettle. And to think you were just scolding me about working on the weekend.”

“Yeah, fair point.” Ros inclined her head in acknowledgement. She took a bite of her eggs, chewed contemplatively and swallowed. “Old habits die hard. Then again, I probably don’t have to tell you that. Everyday was a work day when I was in the field.”

He finished the last of his coffee and put the empty mug next to his empty plate. “I’ve probably gained a stone since yesterday’s dinner." He groaned. "Are you able to share what your current assignment is?”

Unlike him, Ros showed absolutely no shame about clearing her plate. For someone with no excess body fat, it was surprising how hearty of an eater she was.

“I suppose I can, since you hold high enough clearance, but this has to be off record.” She grew considerably more pensive. “There have been rising tensions between Pakistan and India recently, as I’m sure you were briefed last week. When you saw us at the Cabinet Office, Harry and I’d just met with the Home Secretary to discuss what my team have determined to be the cause for those tensions.”

“The threat of nuclear war between the two, definitely a nightmare scenario. What’s your course of action?”

“The Home Secretary has invited the American Secretary of State, and the Pakistani and Indian presidents to a meeting at Chequers for negotiations.”

“And they’ve all just agreed? When will this be?”

“Mudasser was the one we were most concerned about, considering he approved the seizure of an Indian nuclear submarine. It's unclear how quickly we can wrangle all the sides together.”

Gareth inhaled deeply and let the breath go. “I assume Harry wants to keep this in-house, given how quietly 5 has been proceeding.”

Ros nodded. “We’ve come across evidence of an intergovernmental cohort of sorts who have intentionally egged the Indians and Pakistanis on. I can’t reveal my sources but they are credible.” Ros bit off a small piece of bacon and chewed. After she swallowed, she said, “This..group, for lack of a better term, believes that nuclear war will alter the balance of power in their favor.”

Gareth raised an eyebrow. “That’s a very bold calculation to make.”

“Yeah. You know what gets me is that all of these high-minded shadow organisations who are convinced they’re gonna be the ones to do it, they all have overbearing names. Nightingale was the name this one went with.”

 _Nightingale_. He sensed this would be important to remember for the future.

“I hope your operation is successful.” Gareth said. He caught her attention with his sudden seriousness. Their agreement to not discuss work lasted all of an hour, but how could anyone expect them to refrain? Being able to share secrets with her was worth its weight in gold. Gareth felt that familiar squeeze about his heart when Ros smiled in response.

“You know, the Home Secretary sang your praises when he mentioned he was to meet you after us. Even hinted that a Cabinet office may not be too far off.”

He waved a dismissive hand. “There’s only one person whose good graces I care for at present.”

“Absolutely cheesy, I’m telling you…” She grumbled as she stood up to refill their coffee mugs.

From then on, he lived for weekends with her, holed up in her non-descript abode. Talking about their lives, their childhoods, families, even work sometimes. Both of them had histories, it was inevitable at their ages. It became essential to him without him noticing, the way one doesn’t notice the world turning. It wasn’t always possible, since both of them travelled frequently. It was worse when they were both in London but taking time apart for discretion’s sake. Once they encountered each other at a session of the Joint Intelligence Committee. He could hardly recall another time when he’d struggled so hard to maintain an air of polite indifference.

One blustery afternoon, a single phone call in his office caused his blood to run cold.

_“Sir, we’ve just had confirmation from MI6’s Section chief in Istanbul that they’ve had a breach.”_

“Go on,” He urged.

_“A hard drive with the identities of undercover NATO agents was stolen.”_

“What’s the scope?” He barely managed to ask, he could feel a vein throb in his forehead. Turning the air blue with foul language would make him feel better but would hardly be constructive.

Silence. Then an intake of air, _“Worldwide, sir. All agents around the world on active cover.”_

“Do we know who’s responsible?” Gareth asked sharply. The PM would have their heads for this if they didn’t know exactly what was happening.

_“Negative, but M has deployed her officers in pursuit of the thief. It’s 007, sir.”_

Gareth closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger. It wasn't clear if the last addition was supposed to reassure him. It just kept getting better. Sending 007 after such sensitive equipment was like arming someone with a cricket bat to apprehend a barn mouse. Not that a trained mercenary could be equated with such an animal. He could only hope that the hard drive would survive the upcoming fight.

An acute sense of fear suddenly tore through him.

“Is it only NATO agents’ identities on the hard drive?” Gareth’s heart pounded. He was rooted to his chair, waiting for an answer he didn’t think he had the stomach for.

_“Sir, the breach includes all MI-5 and MI-6 officers under active cover.”_

“Fucking hell,” He exclaimed, shooting up out of his office chair.

He said nothing further to the hapless staffer on the other end of the line before hanging up, just concentrated on dialing the secure number he knew by heart. Seconds crawled by as he pressed his phone to his ear, listening to the endless ringing. He reached the generic voicemail greeting and hung up in frustration. Ros was out of the country on official business, meaning she was relying on a legend. He wasn’t privy to further detail but he knew she was working a lead on the Nightingale case. If 007 failed to retrieve the hard drive, hundreds of agents’ lives were at immediate risk without the benefit of cover. They were exposed to the malicious elements they were deceiving, God help the ones who weren't able to cut and run.

Gareth could only think of Ros.


	10. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve reworked the "retirement planning" scene in Skyfall where Mallory meets M for the first time. In this fic, they are both acquainted long before the events of the movie. I think it’s reasonable to assume that the head of MI-6 and the Chairman of the ISC, who’d be a presiding MP presumably around for several years in order to earn that position, would know each other. In my opinion, it makes their interaction more meaningful when they spar verbally. Power plays and personal agendas on both sides galore! It’s also fun to have an outsider react to finding out about the hush-hush relationship between Mallory and Ros. I took the majority of M's and Mallory's conversation from Skyfall itself, so the canon dialogue should be recognizable.
> 
> The main reason I'm writing this fic is for my own entertainment, although I would REALLY love you forever if you took some time to let me know what you think. Please, let me know I'm not just shouting into the void. ;)

_“I want to love but my hair smells of war and running and running.”_

-Warsan Shire

* * *

“It’s like being summoned to the headmaster’s study.” M bit out as she ascended the steps into the office building. Bill Tanner followed his boss closely.

“Standard procedure for the ISC, ma’am.” The look of worry he wore suggested he was mentally preparing himself for the fireworks ahead. A meeting request from the Intelligence and Security Committee didn’t bode well for M. The dust had barely cleared from the implosion of the Turkey operation. Only a total idiot wouldn’t put two and two together.

“Bloody waste of my time’s what I call it…”

The front office staff didn’t slow their advance or ask them to sign in as they would for lower level visitors. The staff assistant did at least open the door leading to Chairman Gareth Mallory’s office. Tanner knew that the meeting was to be private so he’d wait in the outer office until M had had enough. His boss entered the office and the door was pulled shut by the staff assistant, effectively blocking Tanner from listening.

M found the man standing at one of the tall windows that afforded a view of the street. Mallory was someone she could tolerate.She supposed it was the PM’s way of politely showing her the door in getting Mallory to sack her. It was the circumstances that rankled: a deceased agent, a missing list of identities, the threat of publicised executions of intelligence assets. The PM was up in arms about the botched operation that cast the British intelligence community in sharp relief. If there was one thing M didn't care for, it was the judgment of politicians who wilfully misunderstood the nuances of her role. 

“Mr. Mallory,” M began with offering a handshake as he came around the two armchairs situated by the windows to greet her.

“M.” The man released her hand after a perfectly timed moment and motioned for her to have a seat. She set her handbag on the floor and perched herself on the nearest chair, keeping her eyes trained on him as he moved about the room. Mallory wore all the bespoke trappings he was known for: an ironed cotton shirt of deep blue with a navy coloured tie and matching braces to ensure his grey trousers stayed put. He left his suit jacket off, perhaps a sign however unstudied, that she was a guest in his domain and therefore the traditional etiquette didn’t matter. He was a bastion of old British bureaucracy, she thought with faint disdain.

He went to his desk where he had a decanter and single glass tumbler and proceeded to pour a small amount. She noticed he poured none for himself. The gesture was meant to be reassurance yet the fact that he had news to warrant a drink before noon was infuriating. M accepted the glass but let her hand rest in her lap. She had no intention of imbibing when she needed all her wits about her.

“I’m sorry to have to deal with such a delicate subject, in light of ongoing events. But I have to be frank with you.” Mallory said. He took the seat opposite her and draped his long arms over the armrests.

“It would be a good idea.” She responded lightly.

“The Prime Minister is concerned.” He certainly knew how to put those blue eyes of his to use in staring her down. Now that the niceties were over, Mallory was keen to move onto business.

“Well, you can tell him my operatives are pursuing every avenue.”

“Have you considered pulling out the agents?”

“I’ve considered every option.”

“Forgive me if that sounds like an evasion.”

“Forgive me, but why am I here?”

“Three months ago, you lost a computer drive containing the identity of almost every NATO agent embedded in terrorist organisations across the globe. A list which in the eyes of our allies never existed. So if you’ll forgive me, I think you know why you’re here.” Mallory’s tone grew stern. He would brook no dissent, it seemed.

“Are we to call this civilian oversight?” She asked with slight facetiousness.

“No, we’re to call this retirement planning.” It took a proper gentleman to manage a balance between sternness and iron-backed assertiveness. Mallory achieved it without trying. “Your country has only the highest respect for you and your many years of service. When your current posting is completed, you’ll be awarded GCMG with full honours. Congratulations.”

Even though M knew it was coming, it still felt like a knife thrust through her ribs. She sat, preternaturally calm. “You’re firing me.”

“No ma’am, I’m here to oversee the transition period leading to your voluntary retirement in two months’ time. Your successor has yet to be appointed so we’ll be asking you to--”

M could stomach no more of this politician’s conciliatory speech. She stood abruptly, ready to end this exchange, and set the full tumbler back on the surface of Mallory’s desk. “I’m not an idiot, Mallory. I know I can't do this job forever, but I'll be damned if I'm going to leave the department in worse shape than I found it.”

He followed her lead and stood as well, bringing his hands to rest at his hips. Move and counter move. It was his turn to parry.

“I will do what I can to stave off the Prime Minister’s panic. In return, I need to know that you're doing everything you can to protect your officers, present _and_ former. With all and any means at the service’s disposal.” Mallory’s voice became hesitant. M knew it was a small and bitter victory that he would buy her time. The latter part of his statement struck her as odd.

“Our stations around the world are ready to provide all the necessary resources those agents need to return back to base. It’s a matter of time before our officers and agents can get to safety. You have my word.”

Mallory ran a hand over his face. He appeared increasingly worried--far more than he should be about firing an old woman from her post, M thought. There was more to this than met the eye. M was determined to find out exactly what it was. Before long, Mallory began to speak.

“The committee’s had substantiated reports about a man named Faisal Helwani. He was an insider in the Assad regime in Syria. Disenchanted with his overlords, he agreed to provide key information to MI-6 in exchange for the promise of exfiltration to Britain. It turned out to be a very short lived agreement as his name was on that list and he was quickly arrested, tried and convicted of treason. Helwani was dragged into an alley and shot in the head for his alleged treachery. What will they do to the rest, with much stronger affiliations to the service?” Mallory’s voice wavered, subtle as it was.

M was taken aback. The reason she respected Mallory was because he had a rational approach to often difficult issues and never lost his composure.

“What exactly are you asking me?” She fixed him with what she knew was her most pointed glare.

Neither of them backed down. She held his gaze for several seconds until he blinked. Despite knowing how much pride it cost him, M felt savage gratification that she had any sort of leverage against the push to oust her from her position.

“I lost an agent that day.” M continued in the face of his stony silence. “Rest assured that our collective goal is to limit further loss of life.”

Mallory bristled at that. M waited for him to respond, ready to push him further not only for the sake of this unexpected power play but also because she was genuinely curious as to what had him so distraught. At last, Mallory met her eyes.

“Someone...important to me may be in danger. Her life may be at risk.”

M raised an eyebrow. “My, how the tables turn. We all have skin in the game, then.”

“Rosalind Myers was deep undercover in the Middle East when that list went public. It’s been four weeks of the most... awful silence.” Every word was a struggle for him to get out. He left M to read between the lines.The man carried himself so still and upright that he could have been a statue. M understood with almost stinging clarity what he was imploring her to do. Some part of her couldn’t help pitying the man.  

Mallory and Rosalind. M supposed it wasn't very surprising at all. She knew her former 006 all too well, having taken her under her wing after recognising aspects of herself in the younger woman. After Sir Jocelyn Myers’s fall from grace, M had to distance herself from Rosalind by necessity, not by choice.

Mallory’s kindness was a rare quality--especially among people with whom Rosalind would associate in her professional life. He was a stalwart civil servant. In actual fact, Mallory was more of a relic than M was despite the twenty or so years she had on him. His preference for Savile Row suits, Courvoisier cognac and manner of speech were markedly old-fashioned. Of course Rosalind would be drawn to someone like him. She on the other hand was utterly good at her job and had a razor sharp wit that a man like Mallory could appreciate.

“Myers is no longer my agent. You should talk to Harry Pearce.” She said, not without sympathy.

Mallory’s eyes grew dark at that. “This was your blunder.”

M supposed the grudging respect she held for him was reciprocated if he trusted her enough to let his guard down like this. Telling Harry Pearce what Mallory had just inadvertently revealed to her could be potential career suicide. They each had ammunition against the other but a silent pact existed between them to refrain from pulling the proverbial triggers.

“And I _will_ fix it. So let me do my job.” M stressed.

Mallory exhaled roughly before nodding twice and looking away, trapped in the storm of his thoughts. M departed Whitehall with Tanner at her side. James Bond, Rosalind Myers, Faisal Helwani...victims of the world’s most dangerous game. There was no time for remorse. M intended to right her wrongs and would only leave when the job was done.

* * *

Returning to his flat in Kensington held absolutely no appeal to him. It was the end of a very long, difficult week, topped by M’s visit that morning and the ensuing conversation. Mallory immersed himself in work and his public responsibilities to drown out the white noise. In the silence of his flat, the white noise would drown him. So instead of stopping in his neighbourhood, he battled the weekend traffic out of the city and drove until he ended up on that familiar street in Hampstead. The red brick facade with the wall of curling ivy vines stood out among the other buildings, now that the ivy leaves had died in the winter chill.

He had a spare key to her place. He used it to let himself in, the sound of the lock clicking into place as he closed the door resounded through the hall. Four weeks after the list was hijacked, his waking mind refused to accept the possibility that Ros could be anything other than alive.

Mallory hadn’t been able to bring himself to enter her bedroom. He would sit at the table in the kitchen nook, do paperwork, read, sometimes eat. He amassed quite a lot of his belongings here: clothing, personal care items, and the like. He knew it was stupid to relocate to hers because he was still alone even if half of his possessions were here as well.

Tonight, he climbed the staircase and gently pushed the door open. The scent of an unburned candle and her fragrance greeted him. Mallory walked into the darkness, wondering if this would drive him mad. He wondered how long he could keep it up--this grief that was not grief. Mourning for someone who could still be alive. It was unquestionable fact that Ros’s occupation put her in danger. It was routine matter to officers of her seniority and experience. He reminded himself that she'd spent the better part of a decade in war zones and hardship posts. Gareth was well aware of the risks she took at a level of almost sickening detail. She’d have protocols and contingency plans if she was burned. Gareth found none of that to be any comfort. He was ashamed that he didn’t notice how deeply her life had become enmeshed with his after such an astoundingly short time. He supposed they’d had years of buildup and the last month was the culmination of it all. How cruel that it should end this way, he couldn’t help but think. Then he closed his eyes tightly and balled his hands into fists.

“She is alive.” Gareth said, to no one. He removed his scarf, coat, and shoes. The duvet was freezing to the touch as he pulled it back and settled into his side of the bed. Hours passed and sleep evaded him as it hadn’t in so long. This was their sanctuary. Every association he had with this room centered on the woman it belonged to. He realised this was a terrible idea. In the dark, his imagination taunted him with her image. Combined with real memories, Gareth’s subconscious was unrelenting.

“She is alive and she's coming home.” He whispered again, cold fingers pressing into the empty space beside him.

In the bitter cold morning, Gareth woke to the insistent vibration of his mobile. He shook off the haze of sleep to retrieve his phone from his coat pocket and check his messages. At the top of his inbox, there was an unread text from an unknown number. His hand trembled as he read the message.

_‘Have faith. The songbird will sing no more.’_

The phone fell out of his nerveless hand and onto the bed. He refused to believe that anyone else would have sent that anonymous text. She was successful in bringing down Nightingale if he interpreted her message correctly. India and Pakistan would not obliterate each other and half the world in nuclear war. It was so much easier to believe what he'd told himself in the night. Ros was alive, and she was on her way home.


	11. Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Absence makes the heart grow fonder but the reunion is cut short by the growing disaster of the stolen agent identities. Mallory faces Macchiavellian politics at work as he continues to monitor the crisis, and a profound confession by Ros strengthens the bond between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The feedback from the latest chapter was so incredibly kind--thank you all for reading! I love hearing from you, whether it's bad, good, constructive criticism, anything. Please leave a comment if you have time. :)
> 
> Some notes for this chapter: In Skyfall, Clair Dowar is the MP who grilled M at the inquiry. She is a canon character, whereas John Winslow is my invention. Spooks fans will maybe recognize the "emotional incontinence" line about Ros from one of her early series 5 episodes.

_“Men are driven by two principal impulses;_

_either by love or fear.”_

― Machiavelli

* * *

 The effect of believing in Rosalind Myers was enough to propel Gareth into the start of the next week. The committee convened for a strategic planning session and an update on the crisis. He presided over the session with a clear head, ordering his staff to follow up and clarify on many points in the latest intel from MI-6. Their operatives in Jordan, Kuwait and Lebanon were now under significant threat and the respective governments of those countries were crying foul for sovereignty violations. It'd be necessary to liaise with the Foreign Office to prevent a complete diplomatic meltdown. A difficult feat under regular circumstances, to be sure. Gareth knew as more and more of the list was revealed, the containment effort would grow proportionately bigger.

“It’s like trying to fight fires as several little ones ignite in the distance.” Martha Nelson lamented. She was Gareth’s vicechair, as she’d been one of his most trusted colleagues from the early days. Gareth originally got to know her on that fateful trip to Peru. They earned their places in the House of Commons. Allies like her were few and far between, so he made sure she got the leadership role on merit.

“Indeed. It must be refreshing for the Americans, not to be the most despised country on the international stage for once.” John Winslow, by contrast, was a member of the opposition party who seemed to only be able to contribute snide remarks to any given discussion.

“Now, now, we’re not here to mock our illustrious cousins.” Gareth interjected. It earned him a droll look from Winslow, though the other man withheld whatever else he was inclined to say. “The PM has informed me that he will order a formal inquiry from the heads of the security services, beginning with MI-6.”

“Not a moment too soon, if you ask me.” Clair Dowar sniffed. She out of all eight of them on the committee seemed the most ready to tear into the prospective witness list. “My staff and I have already composed our list of questions and will likely have them ready for submission to the record by the mid-week.”

“Excellent. I expect the rest of you to do the same by the end of the week, by which time I should have a definite date and time for the inquiry.” Gareth watched the other woman quirk a smile in thanks. He kept his visage as objective as he could. Dowar and Winslow were far too much like baying hounds for Gareth’s taste and antagonising them would serve little purpose. They were less experienced MPs who lacked the wherewithal to deal with a figure like M. The woman was an institution. The PM’s hearing would undoubtedly be painful for her, but no more painful than learning of more deaths of her agents.

“Before we conclude this afternoon, I want to remind you all not to take unnecessary risks or place yourselves in questionable situations. The bombing of MI-6 headquarters seems to have been an isolated one, targeting M herself. Should any of you feel the need to request heightened security for you or your families, you will have my automatic approval to do so.”

Gareth glanced around. When no further motions were made, he adjourned the session. The committee members broke off into different spheres of conversation. The room was soon full of quiet chatter surrounding the latest events.

“Is this the price we pay, Gareth? The perpetrator of these physical and cyber attacks is a former member of the service with a vendetta, clearly.” Martha looked as tired as he felt. “I hope M was candid with you about the operative she’s chosen to work this case.”

“I oversaw his evaluations myself. Rest assured his previous work and current abilities are up to par.”

Gareth did venture to the temporary MI-6 location in the Churchill Bunker after the bombing to find 007 risen from the dead. It was unclear whether the man was ready for a field assignment as crucial this one was. M seemed to have full confidence in the man. Gareth almost dared to call her sentimental about her 00 but stopped himself. He was in no position to accuse her of being too emotionally invested, not when she knew what Ros Myers was to him.

“Time will tell. In the meantime, we keep calm and carry on. Right?” The other woman tried a smile. It fell short, but the attempt at optimism cheered him.

“Yes. That is exactly what we do.” Gareth affirmed.

“With all this going on, it’s too easy to put the thought of a general election out of mind.”

“Dear god, please don’t remind me. That's the last thing either of us should dwell on.”

They shared a mutually pained laugh. Politics didn’t stop for an international crisis. Both he and Martha were up to stand for re-election in a few months' time, along with several others in the House of Commons. The intelligence debacle played a significant role in their campaigns.

“Sometimes, I wish I could give it all up. Don’t you? Be with my kids, my husband, my cat. The British public may give us hell but somehow we just can't escape the call to serve.” She spoke without looking at him, placing her laptop, files and pens into her large handbag. Little did she know how much the idea appealed to him.

If he’d retired from politics years ago, his life might have been far different. He might have still been married to Elaine and helping her manage her art gallery in Brixton. Yet he knew that that life wasn’t fundamentally him. He was just grateful they were still on good enough terms for her to agree to having a temporary security presence at home.

“Every so often,” He finally replied as he put his briefcase together and put on his coat. “Have a good evening, Martha.”

* * *

He was never very good at taking his own advice. His warning to his colleagues about security implied that he, as chairman, would be taking extra safety precautions. His evening routine, however, defied his own logic. Gareth was in Hampstead for the third night in a row that week. Avoiding unnecessary risks should not entail playing house in an exposed agent's residence yet there he was. He kept things in order, justifying his presence there by tidying and making sure everything was functioning properly. Fetching the mail and daily newspaper, watering the solitary plant in the kitchen by the window...It was a pain in the neck to commute back and forth but the thrumming anticipation overcame all inconvenience.

He began making use of the gas fireplace in the living room to ward off the chill. The wide sofa that had been pushed into a corner and covered with a piece of tarp was unbelievably comfortable once he’d moved it nearer to the hearth. It took a bit of work but Gareth thought the effort worth it. He often reclined there with a novel he randomly selected to kill time and fell asleep with the book still in his hands. Tonight looked to be another such night.

It must have been a blend of some sort, maybe jasmine and something warm like vanilla? He was never very adept at distinguishing notes in a woman’s perfume. He remembered Elaine favoured heavier scents that made it impossible to tell what the individual ingredients were. Jasmine and vanilla, though, were simple and inviting, cosy…

Gareth was jolted awake, suddenly aware he wasn’t alone.

“Hello.” Ros was perched on the sofa’s edge, her hip nudging against his waist. She looked at him with such tenderness, it was hard to believe she was truly there. Gareth sat up and pulled her into a hug. As was Ros’s habit, she caught him off guard. He nuzzled her neck and stroked her back with his hands, joy shot through his veins with dizzying speed. Her leather jacket was icy to the touch as if she'd come in directly from the cold.

“I waited for you.” Gareth murmured. Jasmine and vanilla surrounded him, comforting and so very real.

“I'm sorry I took so long.” Ros said in reply. She kissed his cheek and jaw, trailing her lips to meet his. He could only cling to her frame, to the strength in her posture as she held him up. She rocked back and forth with him, a hand stroking his scalp and the other grasping his shoulder. He couldn’t fight the choked sob that escaped him. Very few things in life overwhelmed him like this. It was liberating to not have to hold back the force of his relief, to be vulnerable with someone he trusted.

“I’ve missed you.” She whispered in his ear. “And I like what you’ve done with my place.”

Gareth laughed shakily. He was shocked by the tears that threatened to fall. He'd become a sodding, weeping mess in the span of thirty seconds. “I’ve missed you too. You can’t know how much.”

“Here and now it’s just you and me, okay?” Her eyes were almost golden, reflecting the firelight.

“You and me.” He repeated back to her.

Perhaps the best feature of a gas fireplace was how easy it was to switch off, which they miraculously remembered to do despite being fused to each other on the way up. It was second nature by now, the way they could kiss and touch and be not more than two steps apart and undress all the while until they were naked and aroused beyond human belief. Gareth knew he was being more aggressive than he tended to be and the mirrored emotion in Ros’s demeanor reflected her own violent lust. They were twin storms sharing the same primal energy, the same need to consume. They navigated each other's bodies in the dark, solely by touch and taste.

He managed to provoke her into mind-shattering release twice before he came, feeling entirely removed from himself. Drenched in sweat and sex, the two of them made no move to disentangle their heated limbs. Ros brushed her palm softly over his cheek and drew him toward her for a sweet, final kiss.

“I love you.” She told him, looking into his eyes.

The confirmation of her feelings was that much more powerful, coming from someone who once proclaimed she " _didn't do emotional incontinence._ "

It was all too much, too bloody good to feel and see and hear her after so long. He fought back a new wave of tears, recalling an army drill instructor who’d bully cadets with the same unfortunate tendency. It did the trick, and instead Gareth found himself grinning. It felt good to smile after such dark, perilous days.

“I’ll be sure to pop ‘round to water the plants and tidy up more often if you thank me with this much spirit every time.”

“If only you were so lucky.” She sighed, eyelids falling shut. He could hear rather than see her satisfied smirk. They both fell asleep soon after, unable to deny their looming exhaustion.

* * *

Gareth’s eyes opened of their own accord, as he was accustomed to rising at half five each morning. He shivered involuntarily. The only other source of warmth was missing from bed. He kicked the covers off and stepped into the bath to grab his thick navy robe off the hook behind the door.

The sound of the television in the living room could be heard from the bottom of the stairs. It was another of his home improvement projects--mounting a flat screen monitor above the fireplace mantle.

Ros was sat in the middle of the sofa, her legs curled under her. She wore a tan cashmere jumper and black joggers while her feet were bare. There was a big micro-fibre throw blanket hanging over the back of the sofa but it went unused. She looked wide awake and riveted by what she was watching. When she saw him coming toward her, her expression softened.

“You're up early.” Gareth remarked. He sat next to her and was pleasantly surprised as she scooted in close. He wrapped an arm around her and rearranged the throw blanket over both of them.

“Jet lag. I woke up and couldn't go back to sleep, so I thought I'd catch up on the latest.” Ros rested her head on his shoulder. “How much time do you have?”

“About an hour. And you?”

“I don't have a strict mandate. I have a debrief on the Nightingale op at Thames House at eleven.”

“It's not often one gets a chance to ease back in.” Gareth didn't catch his own unintentional double entendre until he heard Ros’s quiet laughter.

“Slow and steady has its appeal. But there's something to be said for setting a...vigourous pace, isn't there?” She looked thoroughly smug though she kept focused on the tv adverts.

Gareth cupped her cheek with his palm as Ros twisted toward him. Their kisses began softly until the tip of her tongue ran along the seam of his lips. He opened up to her and deepened their contact, humming with contentment. She loved him and she was here. 

_“Breaking news--an update on the MI-6 crisis--”_

Both of them pulled away to look back at the television. There was no way either could ignore the topic being addressed. Gareth's eyes widened as the reporter warned of the graphic content ahead. Five MI-6 agents in Iraq were caught and murdered on camera. The executions were posted on various social media sites but taken down. Not fast enough to escape the international press, unfortunately.

Ros looked similarly horrified. Perhaps these visuals explained the heightened reaction Gareth had when she'd shown up, alive and well, the previous night.

_“This brings the casualty count to eight total, as three agents were reported killed last week though their deaths were not publicised in such a gruesome manner. This is a grim twist in what is likely the most catastrophic intelligence breach in British history...Updates will be forthcoming as we receive them…”_

Ros picked up the remote and hit the mute button. She dropped it on the sofa and faced him.

“This is what you've had to deal with. _Jesus_."

He nodded. “I can't believe I'm first learning of this from the news. My staff are probably scrambling as we speak. My first calls today will be with Six and GCHQ.”

“I'll bet my unit is as well. We should get cleaned up and go.”

Before Ros could stand, Gareth was compelled to say, “I'm not sure what time I'll be back later.”

“Neither am I. We always find each other, don't we?” She offered him a half smile, one that he just had to kiss. She returned it for a brief moment and then put her hands on his chest as she got to her feet.

The afterglow of their reunion dissipated as they each went about their morning ablutions. Neither were quite immune to the other, however. Ros took her time in selecting and doing up his tie. Aubergine silk to go with his black three-piece suit. He was forced to mentally recite the NATO phonetic alphabet to distract himself from the way her hands lingered a bit too long at his throat and chest. The most vexing thing was her sensuality was so unstudied, it was almost an afterthought. The woman didn’t have to try to be sexy, she just was.

When they finished, they descended the stairs together: Ros first and then Gareth. It gave him the chance to admire the way her grey boucle skirt suit fit perfectly.

“See you soon.” He said as she put on her coat and took her bag and car keys in hand.

“Until tonight.” Ros pecked his cheek and left without another glance. Gareth stood in the hall for just a moment more before he chastised himself for dawdling. He locked the front door behind him and strode out into the morning, steeling himself for a brutal day ahead.

Upon arrival to his Whitehall office at nine, Gareth was immediately accosted by John Winslow and Clair Dowar.

“You’re a brave man to approach me before my first coffee.” He said, brushing past Winslow to deposit his briefcase on top of his desk.

“The PM wants to move up the inquiry date. The service’s ad hoc reactions to these murders are bad enough, we need to be seen holding them accountable for their patched up efforts to contain the leaks!” Winslow snapped. He certainly pulled no punches.

“Right, and you know this because...Oh I’m sorry, did you have a direct line into Downing Street?” Gareth rarely lost his temper but when he did, he wasn’t afraid to pull rank. “Look, I know you have ambition, John. That’s all well and good, but when shit hits the fan, I need my team to focus on the immediate crisis and worry about the back door politicking later. Understood?”

The other man’s lips were drawn so tight it looked like his face might crack in two. Winslow turned on his heel without another word, leaving Clair alone in the large office.

“I apologise on his behalf. He came in with good intentions, I assure you.” She said cautiously. Gareth wasn’t fooled by her innocent act but he was willing to let her say her peace.

“You know what they say about those,” He frowned at the sheer amount of new files and papers on his desk that must have come in overnight. “Road to hell is paved with them.”

Clair emitted what may have been a hollow laugh. She held a manila folder in her hands, which she handed him. “A courtesy copy of my questions for the official inquiry. You can contact me directly or my chief of staff should you need further clarification on any of the points. Will you insist on written testimony from M in advance?”

Gareth nodded curtly, hoping she’d take the dismissal for what it was. He set the folder she’d given him on the top of the intimidating pile. Luckily she was perceptive enough and left him to get to his work. His new assistant, a woman named Eve Moneypenny, came in soon after with a mug of hot coffee. He accepted it gratefully and took a sip.

“No reprieve for the wicked, I’m afraid, sir.” She sounded equal parts sympathetic and professional. “You know, there are rumours Mr Winslow may be gunning for a higher position. He’s a sly one, sir. Watch your back around him.”

He raised his eyebrow at that. Assistants didn’t usually have the audacity to make such frank observations about his colleagues, even if she did have a point. Moneypenny cleared her throat as if realising she may have crossed a line. “I’ve contacted Bill Tanner to arrange a private meeting between you and M--he said she may have a window this evening between five and six but he’ll confirm once he’s sure. And the committee analysts are also ready to update you at your leisure.”

“Thank you, Miss Moneypenny. For the coffee and the warning.” He said. He supposed there was an advantage to having an assistant with a recent background in spycraft, as long as they were reporting to him and not his adversaries. Moneypenny showed potential, but it was best he kept her at a distance for now.

“Not a problem, sir.”

The caffeine was just what he needed. His analytical mind was ready to comb through all the details--to sift through the myriad pieces of a deadly puzzle.


	12. Chapter Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While dealing with the events of Skyfall, Gareth can't help doubting his relationship with Ros. M can't escape the immediacy of a public inquiry and things go far differently than planned in the Intelligence and Security Committee. Dialogue has been taken directly from canon, so you may recognize the scene in question from the movie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're all having a great holiday! As always, thanks to those who've left feedback. I kindly ask that you let me know what you think, good, bad, criticism, anything. It's enormously helpful for the writing process and I appreciate hearing how people are reacting to the story. I think you all know by now, but I enjoy weaving in political tension having to do with intelligence that Skyfall and Spectre presented to us--as well as the much heavier element presented in Spooks. By creating this backdrop, I hope the Mallory/Ros relationship retains its tension as well and doesn't get boring. Also, I've created a few graphics for this fic (too much idle time spent at airports recently)--one I inserted into the top of Chapter One and the second is at the top of this chapter. Hope you like the visuals to go along with the story. :)

_ _

 

_"It is wise to conceal the past even if there is nothing to conceal. A man's power is in the half-light, in the half-seen movements of his hand and the unguessed-at expression of his face. It is the absence of facts that frightens people: the gap you open, into which they pour their fears, fantasies, desires.”_

-Hilary Mantel

* * *

M was fast becoming a frequent visitor to the ISC offices. She crossed the threshold of Mallory’s office unceremoniously, this time accompanied fully by her chief of staff. Mallory himself was standing in front of his television, his only acknowledgment of her presence was how he clicked the remote. A recorded news clip played as M removed her coat and set it on one of the armchairs.

The three of them were silent while the clip played.

_“Good evening. Controversy surrounding the Ministry of Defence has escalated as images of the Hussein assassination continue to circulate…”_

None of them took their eyes off the screen. Even when the publicised execution was shown in full.

_“Captain Hussein, an MI-6 operative embedded in the Middle East, was one of five agents exposed in what is now being considered the greatest internal security breach in modern British history. The Prime Minister continues to express public support for MI-6 while the opposition has taken the position--”_

Mallory suddenly turned the screen off and said, “--has taken the position that we’re a bunch of antiquated, bloody idiots fighting a war we don’t understand and can’t possibly win.” He punctuated his words by slamming the remote control onto his desk.

“Look, three of my agents are dead already. Don’t go involving me in politics now.”

“The Prime Minister’s ordered an expedited inquiry. You’ll have to appear before the week ends.”

“Oh, standing in the stocks at midday? Who’s antiquated now?”

Mallory look severely displeased by her flippant attempt to jibe. “For christ’s sake, listen to yourself. We’re a democracy. We’re accountable to the people we’re trying to defend. We can’t keep working in the shadows, there are no more shadows.” He broke off his speech and flung out his arm, motioning to the television as he moved around his desk.

“You don’t get this do you?” M would not let him escape the end of this conversation. “Whoever’s behind this, whoever’s doing it--he knows us, he’s one of us. He comes from the same place as Bond. A place you say doesn’t exist...the shadows.”

Mallory leaned forward with both hands spread wide to brace himself against his desk. He stared hard at her as she pleaded her case. The man straightened up after a moment, hands on his hips. The scene was so familiar that M was seized by momentary deja-vu. She felt as though she were in the middle of a storm-tossed sea. Rising waves threatened to drag her under. It was only a matter of time.

She decided to lay all her cards on the table. There was no point in being coy.

“The attacker has been identified as Tiago Rodrigues, more commonly known as Raoul Silva. I was Section Chief in Hong Kong when he was my subordinate.”

Mallory’s features remained grave as she continued her explanation.

“I made a choice, one that has direct bearing on the crisis today. After discovering Rodrigues engaged in illegal hacking against the Chinese government, I chose to trade him in exchange for British prisoners held in Hong Kong. I gave him up...and he has spent years plotting against us in revenge. Bond is following a lead that should take him to Silva, but he hasn’t yet made contact with us. We are monitoring his progress to the best of our ability.”

“I’ll need everything you’ve just told me in writing for your testimony. It will be eyes-only classified but my colleagues will have seen it by the time you appear at the inquiry. Their questions will address only what is already in the public domain.”

M nodded. She knew Mallory was a decent man. Admitting to her mistakes was no less bitter in spite of that. She picked up her coat and handbag, thinking how ridiculous it was to be constantly shedding and recovering these things in meetings. Tanner took her cue and stepped out of the office but M stopped short halfway to the door and turned back.

“I take it that Rosalind's back, given your relatively high spirits.” M remarked casually. She presumed Tanner and Moneypenny were out of earshot though she noted Mallory's brief, panicked glance at his office door left ajar.

Mallory cleared his throat and responded, “She is.”

M exhaled, chuckling with soft, ironic amusement. “Tread carefully. Bond and Silva may live and operate in the shadows but she was born amidst them. You’ll never really know the extent of the damage this life has inflicted on her. The damaged ones are the most dangerous. They know how to survive; with or without you.”

He seemed stunned by her unsolicited input on his personal life. His immediate response was to stick to business, “Your advance testimony, on my desk, by the end of the working day tomorrow.”

“Expect to hear from Tanner.” M said. She completed the walk out the door and shut it decisively behind her. The sea may threaten to drown her but she still had an arsenal at her disposal.

* * *

 

Gareth found himself unsettled by M’s offhand insights about her former agent. That was hardly the angle he was supposed to be focusing on--the security breach and political upheaval resulting from it should be his main focus--yet his skin prickled and he found himself replaying every shared moment with Ros Myers. The more he thought about her, the more he reached the uneasy conclusion that what M said rang true.

Who knew Ros better than her former mentor after all? Other than perhaps her father. She'd grown up as the only daughter of a well to-do diplomat turned traitor, probably with a spy's instincts already ingrained in her psyche. Olivia Mansfield, Jack Colville, and Michael Collingwood were the forces that shaped her in her formative years. Gareth met her long after she’d earned her stripes at MI-6. He met the finished product of elite training, not the raw material they’d started with. This line of thought persisted throughout his drive to his Kensington flat instead of her house like he’d originally intended.

He needed to be alone for the evening. To take a step back, away from the maelstrom they seemed to create whenever they were together. He needed to have a clear head for the coming days. The flat was emptier than he realised. He spent so little time here that his kitchen contained nothing edible and dust had gathered on nearly all of the surfaces.

Gareth was immersed in paperwork when his mobile went off at around eleven. He debated whether or not to answer. He let it ring a few times before he answered it.

“Hi.” He said quietly.

“Gareth,” Ros sounded hesitant. “I was under the impression you’d…”

“I know, I’m sorry. I, er, got caught up at work and there’ve been some changes with the week’s schedule. Are you home?”

“Yeah. Late night for all of us on the Grid as well.”

He pressed his phone firmly against his ear, trying to discern if she were disappointed he wasn’t there. Perhaps she needed distance too but didn’t know how to suggest it. Perhaps he was doing them both a favor.

“How was your debrief?” He asked, remembering suddenly what she’d said earlier that morning.

“It was mercifully short actually. My team and I worked closely on the op so there wasn’t much missed communication. We’ve been afforded a very rare sense of closure this time around.”

“Good.”

The stilted conversation was cringeworthy. Gareth couldn’t recall a time when it was this difficult to speak to her. He’d been in his head too long. He’d been an idiot to let M’s warning to get under his skin.

“Harry says there have been rumblings from Whitehall. He expects to be summoned to an inquiry soon.”

He couldn’t help the spike of wariness he felt. Was she using him for inside information about the Committee’s agenda for Harry Pearce’s benefit? Gareth ran a hand over his face. He was being ridiculous.

“Harry isn’t due for a grilling just yet. But the PM has put pressure on us to summon M for the self-same purpose.”

“Hardly a surprise.” Ros replied. She may be curled on the sofa beneath the throw blanket, untouchable in his imagination. Regret chased away the wariness. He wished he were with her, conducting this exchange face to face.

“No. Certainly a first though. No head of the Service has ever testified publicly regarding its current operating status.”

“I suppose that’s rather the point, isn’t it? The creation of a brave new world where everyone knows how we work.”

“For better, for worse.”

“Mmm. Well, she won’t be cowed by any of you, I hope you know that. She might be conciliatory somewhat but the minute you attack her case record or history of contributions, consider your inquiry to be over.”

“I know. I met with her tonight. Your assessment is dead-on.”

With time, it became far easier to talk. Gareth bade her goodnight once he saw it was nearly one in the morning and retired to his long unused bedroom. Electing to put distance between himself and Ros was healthy. He knew this in his rational mind. Trying to sleep without her next to him reminded him of the terrible time when she could’ve been alive or dead and he would’ve been none the wiser.

* * *

The day of reckoning finally arrived. Moneypenny informed him that she’d received M’s testimony as promised and ensured that every member of the ISC had one before the start of the inquiry. Gareth figured this was likely going to be the crowning achievement of his tenure as chairman--holding the almighty head of MI-6 accountable.

On the bright side, the weather let up slightly. Winter’s chill gave way to a bit of warmth that hinted at spring. The ISC main committee room was full of natural light. Mother Nature herself wouldn’t tolerate shadows either that day. Clair Dowar and John Winslow were more than ready for the spectacle, while the others were appropriately serious and respected the institution M represented if not the woman herself.

The benches for the public audience were full and as with all high profile inquiries, there was a long queue at the entrance. Reporters, academics, students among many others turned up. Gareth convened the session and the committee heard opening statements. He scanned the crowd, noting the amount of police presence, and wondered how many people in the audience were actually spooks. Just then, he noticed a familiar face, but his attention turned to Dowar, who launched into her first question without further dawdling.

Jab after verbal jab was thrown at the older woman. Mallory had to intervene at one point, and ask to hear from the witness herself for the sake of variety. He felt it profoundly important that M’s testimony be delivered without interruption. From the look M gave him when he gave her the opportunity to finally defend herself and her organisation, he knew that in spite of everything, she appreciated what he did for her.

“Chairman, Ministers. Today I've repeatedly heard how irrelevant my department has become. Why do we need agents? The Double-O section? Isn't it all rather quaint? Well, I suppose I see a different world than you do. And the truth is that what I see frightens me. I'm frightened because our enemies are no longer known to us. They do not exist on a map. They're not nations. They are individuals. Look around you. Who do you fear? Can you see a face? A uniform? A flag? No. Our world is not more transparent now. It's more opaque. It's in the shadows. That's where we must do battle. So, before you declare us irrelevant, ask yourselves, how safe do you feel?”

The question hung heavy in the air. The MPs visibly shifted in their chairs while M stared them all down with the tenacity she was renowned for.

“I've just one more thing to say. My late husband was a great lover of poetry. And, erm...I suppose some of it sunk in, despite my best intentions. And here today I remember this, I think from Tennyson: we are not now that strength which in old days moved heaven and earth. That which we are, we are; one equal temper of heroic hearts, made weak by time and fate but strong in will. To strive, to seek, and not to yield."

That quote hadn’t been included in her official remarks. She threw that in, off the cuff. Gareth admired her for it, for the determination she exuded to make things right. He caught Ros's eye. They exchanged a look, both of them affected by the power in M's words. She sat in the middle of the committee room's full audience, unobtrusive in her dark suit. She could have passed as a business executive, committee or parliamentary staff. Ros’s experience placed her in a singular position to understand the urgency behind M’s words.

Several things happened in the next second. The doors burst open to reveal three policemen brandishing guns. They opened fire indiscriminately, causing the crowd to disperse. Screams rang out and everyone was running for whatever cover they could find. Gareth leapt over the desk as his colleagues dove beneath it as they’d been trained. The central shooter approached, aiming straight at M, who seemed to be frozen where she stood. The gunman's accomplices were engaged in a firefight with the real police in the room who were dropping at an alarming rate.  
  
Gareth got to M and reached for her to pull her out of the shooter’s crosshairs. In an instant, blinding pain tore through his other arm and the white hot pain flattened him. His vision blurred when the back of his head hit the marble floor and he clutched blindly at his left shoulder. Tanner took M by the shoulders and forced her behind the desk, shielding her from the bulk of the gunfire.  
  
He tried to sit up, fueled by adrenaline and glancing pain, when he saw her sprinting toward him. _Ros had to get out, it wasn't safe_ \--then he was being tugged roughly by his good arm. She had her own firearm, he realised, as she pulled him to his unsteady feet and they made a run for one of the inlaid doors of the committee room.  
  
He bent down and grabbed a fallen gun off the floor as they passed one of the bodies of the attackers. Ros took a position at the front of the small alcove. They were both crouched, waiting for a lull in the shooting before going on the offensive.  
  
Gareth watched her briefly. He'd never seen her like this, all of her tactical instincts on display as she stood and fired five times in succession. She took out one of the enemy gunmen, he surmised by the decreased sound of gunfire from the other side. His ears rang and he knew he was losing a fair amount of blood but he forced himself to shoot, while she reloaded her gun with another clip she'd hidden in her jacket.  
  
He took down the last gunman and slammed himself back into the alcove. That's when they both saw 007 in the opposite alcove. The bastard winked at them before firing at all of the fire extinguishers in the room, causing the air to fill with opaque mist that made it impossible to see.  
  
Bond then strode into the center of the room, firing several times as Tanner ushered M out with the prodigal 00. Gareth saw Moneypenny standing behind the desk, shouting at his colleagues to evacuate out of the other door. Tanner and M fled through the door behind him and Ros, which he slammed shut once they were gone. Right after that, the pain finally caught up to him. He fell down clutching at his wound.  
  
"No, no keep your eyes open, I need to--I need to get you a medic," Ros said frantically. Her voice sounded disjointed and his vision went blurry again as he tried to comply with her demands. Maybe he was concussed from hitting his head on the floor along with his gunshot wound. She holstered her Glock and gently examined what she could of his wound--it was mostly covered by his suit jacket. He groaned when she got him to remove his jacket and the movement jostled his injured arm.  
  
"Shit," She whispered at the sight. "I can't tell if it's a flesh wound or if it's hit the artery."  
  
Gareth’s breathing was shallow but he stayed conscious.  
  
Tanner suddenly reappeared, looking more disheveled and aghast than he'd ever seen. Ros didn't stop for pleasantries but snapped, "I'm with MI-5--Get a medic! He needs a hospital."  
  
"No--" Gareth managed. "We have to find out who did this. If M..."  
  
"M escaped, sir, Bond has her. She's right, you're losing too much blood, we need to get you taken care of."  
  
"No. Hospital." Gareth protested forcefully.  
  
Ros looked at him like he was insane but Tanner was quick to move on.  
  
"I'll take you to the bunker. There are medical supplies there and we can patch you up. If it's worse than we thought, we’ll have no choice but to rush you to A &E."  
  
The last thing he remembered seeing was the look of abject terror on Ros's face before he gave into unconsciousness.

* * *

"Only a few more..." Ros sounded like she was in the throes of utmost concentration.

"Thank god it's not worse." Tanner, definitely Tanner.  
  
Gareth was alarmed to find the both of them hunched over his injured arm. He jerked up and it caused Ros to lose her hold on a small piece of shrapnel in his flesh.  
  
"Damn it, keep still." She hissed. She repositioned the tweezers and carefully lowered them to his skin. Gareth knew they must have used some kind of local anesthetic because there was hardly any sensation in his shoulder and arm.  
  
Tanner held a bowl out to her into which she dropped the shrapnel. He saw all the other pieces that presumably came out of his arm.  
  
"Okay, do we have gauze and bandages?" Ros asked. There was a faint smudge of dried blood on her cheek--his blood, he realised and felt a bit sick.  
  
Tanner took over with the sutures, so Ros could help him drink from a water bottle. Gareth drank his fill and she twisted the cap back on to set on the desk.  
  
"There. That's the best I can do." Tanner finished with the stitches and cleaned the area before wrapping a bandage firmly around it.  
  
"Thank you, Bill." Ros said. "I couldn't have done this alone."

Even in Gareth’s current state he was wary of the other man making assumptions about Ros. Assumptions that would be one hundred percent correct as the man wasn't a fool. However, Tanner’s face betrayed nothing beyond concern. There were far more pressing issues to be dealt with after all.

"Anytime. Make sure you rest, sir. I need to get to the control room to assess our next moves."

When they were alone, it finally registered that they were in M's office in the Churchill bunker. He was lying on a cot in the middle of the room. There was a litany of medical supplies scattered about. Ros sat cross legged on the floor at his side. Her suit jacket was nowhere to be found. Her white collared shirt was hopelessly stained and so were her slacks, no matter how dark they were.  
  
"Are you alright?" Gareth asked gracelessly. "You've got blood all over you."  
  
Her mouth quivered like she was holding back a smile. "I'm just peachy. As one is when their partner almost bleeds out before their eyes."  
  
His drug-addled mind couldn't help fixating on what she said.

"Partner, eh?" Near death experiences apparently turned him soppy.  
  
"Partner, lover, amante, amore... _boyfriend._ " She drawled.

"Yes, yes, I approve."

That earned him a gentle pinch on his uninjured bicep.

"No need to prove to me you're a hero, by the way. I already know you are." Her fingers traced a path from his temple to his jaw. Now she was certainly teasing him. He laughed until his side twinged and his laughter turned into a pained groan.  
  
Ros grew serious again. "You really should rest. I'll be right here, if you need anything."  
  
Gareth nodded. He closed his eyes without further argument and drifted off with his good hand clasped in both of hers. He was stupid to put distance between them. How many more times could either of them elude death and destruction? No amount of enforced discretion could be worth dying without seeing her one last time. M warned him that Ros was cold enough to leave without a second thought. From the way Ros dragged him into the alcove in the middle of a raging shootout and tended to his wound after, he was selfishly relieved the older woman was wrong.


	13. Chapter Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gareth learns something about Ros and decides to act on this knowledge, with a little help from a certain executive assistant. It's all fun and games until news of 007 and M arrives, heralding the end of an era. MI-6 is left leaderless after Skyfall and Ros takes on a difficult case at MI-5 having to do with corporate counter espionage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The more I write for this story, the more fun it gets to mess about with canon. I reference the end of Skyfall and Spooks series 7 episode 5 ("On the Brink"), merging both. I'm weaving lots of hints for things to come, so pay attention. ;) Spooks fans: I'm sorry for jumping around in the canon timeline. I wanted to have a bit of humour in this chapter as well which hopefully came through in a coherent manner. Please let me know what you think and as always thanks all who've commented! Happy New Year!

_ _

 

 _“_ _You are guarded and full of light_

_at the same time,_

_like the moon before she undresses.”_

― Pavana

* * *

The most baffling thing about intelligence was how strategic operations and other such big events never happened in a vacuum. Real life carried on just the same. Winter yielded to spring as it unfurled in tenuous stages. Parliament convened. The campaign season was in full swing for the May elections. Votes, markups, and committee hearings occurred…

The ISC enjoyed a new level of notoriety ever since the day of Raoul Silva’s assault. Gareth conducted sessions as efficiently as he could in the aftermath. His colleagues were shaken by the violence, timely as it was considering the subject matter that day.

007 and M were northbound to a remote part of Scotland, luring Silva away from the masses. It was an unsanctioned operation on the official level. Gareth, however, gave his blessing to Tanner and the young Quartermaster who aided the fugitive pair in the journey. He was making steady progress in his recovery and kept his arm wrapped as it was in a sling.

Weekends were as before. Ros’s home was undeniably his as much as it was hers. The only existing tie he had with his Kensington flat was the rent due every month, which he continued to pay for appearance’s sake. It was obviously a waste of money but Ros never commented on it if she happened to know. They stopped taking time apart from each other but remained careful. Both their jobs kept them late some nights but for the most part, they were together in every sense of the word.

“Hello?” Gareth entered with his trench coat and briefcase in his good arm. He nudged the door shut with his foot, set his briefcase down and turned the lock in one surprisingly fluid motion for a man with his other arm in a sling.

“In here!” Ros called out from the living room. Gareth found her sorting through the stack of mail she’d let pile up for too long. She sat on the sofa with the bin at her side so she could toss the rubbish. He saw a pile of what were probably bills and other such things at her hip. Settling himself carefully down so he wouldn’t disturb her pile or stress his arm, Gareth let himself relax into the cushions.

“How was your day?” Ros asked. She had an envelope in her hands but paused to await his answer. She always asked that and he never minded answering.

“Well, it’s over.” Gareth spent the first half of the day in his government office and the second half visiting his campaign staff in their constituency offices. Morale was high but Gareth sometimes felt too old to keep up with his own campaign. Elaine had always been his support, without her, he found himself employing every ounce of charisma he had just to compensate for her absence.

Not that he needed to work especially hard to court voter admiration. His communications team painted him as an unsung hero for saving M and surviving a gunshot wound. The mainstream media published the spin precisely as it was given to them. He was practically untouchable to any outside challenger. He inadvertently pictured Ros as a political spouse; the idea was both absurd and tantalising.

“That bad?” She went back to her sorting: toss, keep, repeat. He caught her frowning at what looked like a clothing catalogue for women over forty. She dropped it into the bin once she saw him looking at her. “I may be on the edge of that age demographic but I _definitely_ don’t need such a flowery reminder.” 

Indeed, she was clad in a white collared shirt that had obviously been tailored for her slim figure and dark jeans. He couldn’t imagine her in anything like what the model on the catalogue cover was wearing. Gareth was a wise enough man to know not to laugh. Instead, he briefly rested his right hand on her knee.

“Must’ve sent it by mistake.” He affectionately squeezed her knee before removing his hand. Ros gave him one of her signature smirks before turning back to her task. Gareth sighed. As much as he didn’t want to talk about work, he’d come to realise how keen of a listener Ros was. She never interrupted until the end at which point she tended to offer unexpected but valuable insights.

“John Winslow is at it again.” Gareth knew he mentioned that name before but never elaborated on the man’s underhandedness. “He continues to challenge me in session. I can tell he wants to chip away at my authority, bit by bit. He’s lost respect for me.” 

“What makes you say that?” Ros finished with her sorting. She rearranged herself in her seat, curling one leg under herself and resting her arm over the back of the sofa. She looked at him expectantly.

“His attitude worsened after the MI-6 inquiry. I haven’t confronted him. But it feels like…” Gareth fell silent. The dread he’d wanted to leave behind in Whitehall resurged. “It feels like I’m living on borrowed time. Or my chairmanship is, at any rate.” 

“I thought you bureaucrats were used to this sort of thing. Since when did you let the words of someone like John Winslow get to you?” She laid a hand on his unfettered forearm. The gesture soothed him as her touch always did. Incredible, that. 

“I think my instincts are making a mountain out of a molehill. Doesn't change the reality that they could oust me, you know. It'll be May in the blink of an eye.” Gareth admitted.

“Observe who amongst your colleagues he has the most pull with. Didn’t you mention he was chummy with Clair Dowar?”

“They're birds of a feather, yes. They get on well.” 

“I know the Home Secretary can’t stand her. I suspect he’s not too fond of Winslow either. I’m sure the fact that Winslow and Dowar are in the opposition won’t help them make inroads with the Cabinet ministers. They have no real influence if they don’t have Blake’s ear and I don't think the ideological distribution will change after the election. I think you need to stand your ground.”

He considered her input. She had a solid point. “You never fail to reassure me, Ros. Thank you.”

The corners of her eyes crinkled a bit when she smiled at him. He loved that about her, those barely noticeable things. “You never fail to return the favour.” She replied. 

Gareth hoped that was true. He wanted nothing less than an equal partnership in all things with her. “And your day?” He asked, in the spirit of his last thought. “What’s the latest from the grid?” 

Ros cocked her head ever so slightly. She looked contemplative. “Economic terrorism. A high-up business executive may be playing Russian roulette with the British economy. He’s orchestrating the downfall of Highland Life.”

“It does look like it might go the way of Bear Stearns in 2008. Open source media is all the world needs to make that judgment.”

“Mmm,” Ros made a small noise of agreement. “We worry about people like Raoul Silva shooting up a hearing room. It’s easy to forget how much worse another financial crash or cyberattack on our infrastructure would be.”

“You're the lead on this?” 

Ros shook her head in the affirmative. “I'll be assuming a cover. My new name is Jenny Hunter. I'm now an accountant, starting a new job at Meynell Holdings.”

Gareth scrunched his nose, feigning distaste. “Jenny doesn't suit you.”

“That's because you know me as me.”

“Does this mean you need me to clear out of here in the meantime?” He groaned, half joking. “I've only just been able to pick up my dry cleaning.” 

Ros’s eyes danced. “The things I ask you to do, in the name of the British state. I do apologise, Gareth. I'll be sure to let Harry know how MI-5 is inconveniencing you.”

“Ah well, chin up.” He muttered to himself. “Are you hungry?”

“Famished, actually.”

“I think we still have chili in the freezer.”

Ros put both feet on the ground and sat up. “I’ll get it started. I can’t have you distressing the appendages you have left.”

“I’m not completely decrepit, woman.” He grumbled though he made no move to stand. In truth he was amused by her teasing but he was obliged to play the curmudgeon.

“We’ve got three more weeks until you can prove that to me.” Ros got off the sofa and left him where he sat.

Gareth thought the worst part of having to recover from a gunshot wound at his age was watching Ros Myers saunter away in the opposite direction. It was her way of incentivising him to take care of himself. She’d been reluctant to do anything more than snog him to prevent further aggravating his injury to their mutual frustration.

He let out an exaggerated sigh, knowing she’d hear it. She went about preparing and heating up their leftovers as he sunk further into the cushions at his back. He happened to glance at the pile of letters she planned to keep, figuring he could be useful and take them up to her desk.

“I’m going to change. Shall I take your mail up?” He called out.

“Yeah, thanks!” Came Ros’s offhand response over the noise of the microwave and clinking of plates and utensils. He grasped the mail stack and padded into the hall and up the stairs. When he reached the small office, he accidentally dropped some of the envelopes.

Biting back a curse, Gareth bent to retrieve the nearest one. It was a small envelope that had already been opened, she must’ve looked at it before he arrived. Out of innocent curiosity, Gareth turned it over to read the sender’s name. He was taken aback to see it was from her father Jocelyn Myers. Pen and paper were about the only amenities available in jail. Gareth wouldn't have pegged the man as the sentimental type. 

Gareth looked toward the door, waiting to hear if Ros followed him, and then he removed the contents of the envelope. It was wrong to snoop on her correspondence. He told himself he would only take a quick glance and then put it right back.

It turned out to be a birthday card with a simple design on its cover. He opened it to see it began with “ _My dearest Rosalind, you may have received this a few days earlier than your true birthday. I wanted to ensure it reached you in time…”_ Gareth closed it and slid it back into the envelope, feeling already as though he intruded on something extremely private.

His mind raced as he gathered up the rest of the fallen letters, placed the stack on her desk and backed out of the office to change out of his suit. He retreated to the bedroom and opened his side of the closet to retrieve a t-shirt and joggers. Getting out of his three piece suit was a bit of a challenge one-handed but he managed it with patience.

Of course Ros had a birthday. She was a human being after all, despite her tendency to make him believe she was far more than a mere mortal. Gareth needed to find out the exact date without asking her or raising suspicion. A card from her incarcerated father likely hurt her more than she would ever let on. Her reaction to the clothing catalogue suddenly made more sense.

He decided he would plan something for her but he was going to need a second opinion. He knew exactly who to ask.

* * *

“Sorry I don’t think I heard you correctly. Could you repeat that, sir?” Eve Moneypenny was an excellent personal assistant. There was no reason to believe that she wasn’t up to this task. Even if it was, strictly speaking, not work-related at all.

Gareth cleared his throat. He was most emphatically not sheepish. “I require some slight...consultation regarding a birthday present for someone important to me and I would very much appreciate your help.”

Moneypenny’s lips twitched as she frowned in consternation. “So in plain English, you'd like me to help you choose a birthday gift for a friend?”

He must have looked pained at the simplified translation of his original request. The initial shock wore off and now Moneypenny looked far too amused for her own good. She stood in front of his desk, the consummate professional. He noticed her taste in business attire was always elegant and assumed that it extended past her work persona. Gareth went out on a limb, hoping she wouldn’t laugh in his face and politely tell him to bugger off.

Moneypenny met his eyes. She was probably cognisant of Gareth’s inner monologue that all men at some point in their lives face whilst trying to purchase a gift for a significant other. A small grin appeared as she inquired, “I take it you're asking me because I'm the nearest female you feel comfortable asking?”

“Well I wouldn't put it quite that way-” He interjected, getting to his feet because he felt it rude to ask for a favour while he sat and she stood.

She held up a placating hand. “Say no more, sir. I'll be happy to help. What are your friend’s interests, hobbies…?”

Gareth thought carefully. He slid his right hand into his jacket pocket and bit his lip. What did Ros like? Given how long he'd known her, it wasn’t too hard to answer. “Russian literature. Vintage art prints. Wine. Grand gestures are best avoided.”

“Hm...I suspect I know the answer but I want to be clear: is this friend of the male or female persuasion?”

“The latter.”

A knowing expression came over Moneypenny’s face. “I'd start with the books. I know a great little shop in Bloomsbury where they sell first editions of things in their original languages.”

Moneypenny pulled a sticky note from the pad he kept on his desktop along with a spare pen and jotted down the store’s name. She handed it to him and said, “Start there.”

“Thank you.” Gareth answered, already distracted by the wide range of possibilities.

“Hang on a minute.” Moneypenny suddenly took back the note out of his grip. “On second thought, why don’t you tell me what authors she’s partial to. I’ll pop in and have a look. If I find something, I’ll buy it and you can reimburse me.”

“Any particular reason why I can’t do this myself? I don’t want to impose on your time any more than I already am.” He furrowed his brow. He wondered how stupid he’d look if he reached over his desk and tried to snatch the note from her.

“Sir, all due respect but the majority of shop owners in that part of town aren’t shy about their politics. If they get wind of who you are or what party you belong to, they might shoot you on sight. Better to let me go.”

“Ah. Well, I’m forever in your debt, Moneypenny.”

“Not at all, sir. How time sensitive is our mission?”

Gareth had to access Ros’s basic personnel file through the interagency online bank to ascertain the exact date. The sixteenth of March, 1967. It was currently the twelfth.

“We have three days excluding today.”

“Right then, email me the list of authors. I’ll go tomorrow at lunch and let you know what I find.”

Gareth took advantage of Ros staying late at Thames House to peruse her pair of white bookshelves. There were multiple book spines with Cyrillic script on them. He possessed only a rudimentary knowledge of Russian but he knew enough to understand those volumes were mostly works by Anton Chekhov. Among the others were Dotsoevsky, Tolstoy and a woman named Anna Akhmatova. Akhmatova seemed to be a poet Ros particularly liked. All of the copies on the shelf were careworn and almost falling apart.

He hit send on his email to Moneypenny just as he heard Ros arrive home. 

They were in bed when she brought up the exigencies of her current assignment.

“Unfortunately, you really can't be here the next few nights. I don't know how closely I'm going to be watched as Jenny Hunter.” Ros nestled into his side, pressing her lips to his neck. Gareth closed his eyes and sighed.

“Okay, then I suppose I'll make do on my own.”

Ros nuzzled him and settled her head in the space between his shoulder and neck. His good arm kept her snug against him.

“Alexis Meynell is a reputed terror to work for. It’s my first day tomorrow. I need to gauge the depth of his paranoia before I can really get into his business.”

“I know this is redundant by now, but please,” he peered down at her, “Be careful.”

“I will.” Ros said warmly. She fell asleep not long after. Gareth hoped her operation wouldn't throw a wrench in his plans. They parted ways in the morning. Gareth packed his case and a duffel with enough to get him through a week. He kept a few suits in his office closet for just these kinds of situations. Ros, or rather Jenny Hunter, left before the dawn broke.

Gareth had a full schedule beginning with a meet and greet at a school, a business lunch with donors, and afternoon votes. He sailed through it all with practiced ease. His chief of staff did the legwork for the donor outreach which ensured the campaign was in a financially comfortable place. He and his team were veterans at this part of the game by now.

At around two o’clock, he felt his mobile vibrate in his jacket pocket. He was in his office reviewing the vote summary sheet with his legislative director when he answered it.

“Moneypenny.” He said in greeting. His legislative director left him alone to take the call.

“It’s all looking very promising, sir. I’ve found early versions of Chekhov’s work--you mentioned your friend liked _The Three Sisters_ and _Uncle Vanya._ They also have a collection of poetry by Anna Akhmatova, most of which survived Stalin's purges in the 1940’s. These are insanely rare.”

“Which of the Akhmatova pieces do they have?” Gareth heard faint rustling like Moneypenny was balancing her mobile against her shoulder while rummaging through bookshelves.

“I had to ask the shop owner to translate the titles. There is _Poema bez geroia_ or _Poem without a Hero, Requiem,_  her most famous work apparently, and other smaller volumes like _Moscow Trefoil._  Sir, I’ve had a look at some of the English translations. This is really dark, beautiful stuff. If your friend appreciates the tragic prose that came out of revolutionary Russia, these would be perfect.”

Gareth agreed but was reluctant to ask her to spend the money. “I think they sound like excellent choices. Please select the two you feel are the most rare. Thank you so much, Eve.”

“You’re welcome, sir. I’ll be back soon.”

He hung up and pocketed his phone. He could hear the commotion from outside, his legislative director hollered, “The whip called the vote! Fifteen minutes on the clock, sir!” 

Gareth reported to the House of Commons to fulfill his duties. He cast his votes along with his rambunctious colleagues. He spotted John Winslow out of the corner of his eye and kept his visage neutral as possible when the man came close.

“It’s a good job you’ve made it here in time. Isn’t there a grocery store ribbon cutting or something you should be at?” Winslow practically gleamed with understated malice. Gareth formed a fist with his injured hand, ignoring the shot of pain it caused. He willed himself to relax and remember what Ros told him.

“Not quite, John. My staff are capable of setting a manageable campaign schedule. Tell me, how’s your position looking in the polls?”

Winslow scowled. It was no secret that the man had a close competitor and was doing only marginally better in the polls. “It’s only a matter of time before you’re sacked for your utter incompetence. Do you really think the PM will keep you around after what’s happened up north?”

Gareth was slightly confused before he brushed it aside. “I have more interest in joining a British bowling association than listening to your asinine threats.” Although Gareth was glaring, he almost undermined himself by laughing. His zinger sounded far too much like Ros to be a coincidence. It seemed he was picking up a good deal of her sarcasm.

“Your days as chairman are numbered, Mallory. You better get a head start on your retirement planning.” Winslow took a step back and turned on his heel, walking through the crowded chamber and disappearing from sight.

“Bloody hell, he’s an unpleasant fellow.” Martha Nelson came up to him. Gareth put Winslow’s remarks out of mind so he didn’t look so peeved in front of his vice chairwoman. “Gareth, I’ve just had awful news. MI-6 has reported that 007 eliminated Raoul Silva in Scotland...But not before Silva assassinated M. She died last night.”

The world may have shook at their feet and Gareth wouldn’t have heard it. He couldn’t wrap his head around it. Was that what Winslow meant about ‘what happened up north’?

“Good god.” He murmured. He couldn’t very well tell her that he authorised 007’s attempt to keep M safe and off the grid. MI-6 was leaderless. The PM got what he wanted in a roundabout way without the fight that Olivia Mansfield was prepared to put up. Everyone got what they wanted. “Any word on the stolen hard drive?”

“Not yet, but a joint team was dispatched to retrieve it from Silva’s stronghold on Hashima Island." 

Martha took his hand, her expression mournful. “She wanted to give her life in service of the country. It’s not in our place to judge how she made her exit.”

He swallowed hard. The surrounding clamour of the House drowned his next words. “This will be everywhere. Has it hit the press yet?”

“No, the Cabinet was just informed. The Home Secretary will deliver a press conference later tonight.”

Gareth returned to his office afterward, not ready for the trek to his Kensington flat. He was shocked to find Moneypenny still there. She looked stricken, her makeup was slightly smudged beneath her eyes as if she’d cried. She must have known somehow.

“Sir, here are the books.” Moneypenny handed him the poetry volumes. The two of them were quietly glad to focus on something else, it seemed. The copies had handsomely bound leather covers with gilded edges and corners. The titles were embossed in the material and as he opened the top one to the first page, he could tell these were worth every penny.

“Thank you again, Eve. I have a cheque in my desk for you, give me a moment.” Gareth took the books into his office and placed them inside his briefcase. He pulled open the top draw of his desk and withdrew said cheque to pay Moneypenny back.

“Please, have an early night. I think we could all use some time to process what’s happened.”

Moneypenny’s eyes grew glassy. “Good evening, sir.” She whispered before she took her coat and bag and left without another word. Gareth poured some cognac into a tumbler and took a seat in the armchair that M herself once occupied. He turned on the news, in need of some background noise. M had been head of the Service for almost as long as he'd been in Parliament. Knowing she'd met her end at the hands of a killer like Silva was jarring. He found himself calling Ros even though he knew he really shouldn’t when she was under cover. She picked up on the third ring.

“Hello, darling.”

She was likely not alone if she was addressing him thus. “Is this a bad time?”

“...No, I’m just finishing up here. How are you?”

Gareth hesitated for a moment to weigh his words. “007 was successful in eliminating Silva. But M did not survive the fallout.”

There was only silence for a long time. He regretted having to tell her now but he didn’t want her to hear it from a source as callous as the news or the Home Secretary’s press release.

“I see. Listen, I’ll call you later, alright?” Ros kept her tone steady. She ended the call before he could respond. Gareth put his phone down and took the smaller poetry book. He ran his fingers over the embossed cover, breathing deeply. When he opened it to the empty first page, the scent of antiques and parchment tickled his nose. He took out a pen from his jacket’s inner pocket and uncapped it. He’d been mentally composing a note to write to her as there were many opportunities during the day for him to think about his message. His pen strokes were consistent, his words would immortalise what he felt. His heart was weary of death and deceit, of manipulation, but at the same time full of love and so very heavy with it all.

_Happy birthday my partner, amante, amore. May this be the first of many I celebrate with you._

_All my love,_

_-M_

 


	14. Chapter Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secrecy is a blessing and curse; Gareth has learnt this lesson time and again. Turmoil and intrigue amongst the ISC threatens his and Ros's personal lives, involving the most senior Cabinet ministers and the PM himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit more reliant on readers having passing familiarity with the Spooks episode 7.5 “On the Brink.” It’s a Ros-centric episode about her infiltrating a shady investment firm that’s plotting to tank the British and global economy to expose capitalism as a flawed system. Mallory meets with the Foreign Secretary Ruth Chambers in this chapter, whom I’ve pulled from the Spooks universe. The Foreign Secretary traditionally decides along with the PM who to nominate as head of MI-6. I was struck by the idea that maybe Mallory's appointment to the post of M wasn't as smooth as Skyfall made it seem (I love a bit of political infighting). I won’t say anything more to spoil what’s coming. I hope you enjoy the update and if you like, please leave a comment. :)

  _“Survival...is an infinite capacity for suspicion.”_

 **―** John Le Carre

* * *

The anticipated night finally arrived and although the conditions were not ideal--Ros’s legend required her to move into an MI-5 safehouse turned flat for the duration of her current assignment--Gareth was prepared. Ros was supposed to attend a black-tie evening fundraiser hosted by Alexis Meynell and his charitable foundation somewhere in the City.

Gareth knew she wouldn’t be able to meet him face to face because she was on active service so he had the books delivered by a courier in a nondescript package. They should have arrived in time, after which he hoped she’d call. It felt so long since they were last together. He wondered if he’d ever get used to it, how she became a different person as needed for her job, and the distance required to make that cover believable. He knew he was bordering on obsessive so he put the books out of mind as best he could.

Not that Gareth wanted for work or didn't have enough to do between handling MI-6, running the ISC, and staying on top of his usual responsibilities as an MP. He and Moneypenny went over the rest of the week’s schedule in order to deconflict any double or in some cases even triple-booked meetings. Working so closely with her, it was plain to see that the birthday gift debacle alleviated Moneypenny's initial misgivings where Gareth was concerned. After M’s death, their working relationship strengthened further as they both mourned a woman they profoundly respected. Bill Tanner came in as well to update him on several issues the service faced, as Gareth was still the de facto chief. He worked without stopping through the entire afternoon, meticulously reviewing a long series of cables, demarches and communiqués and signing off on them as necessary, until even Tanner appeared to be worn out.

The workday concluded at precisely seven. Gareth bid Moneypenny and Tanner goodbye and summarily dismissed them for the night so he could leave without guilt. He didn’t mind staying in his flat this time around since he knew it was only temporary. He tried not to glance at his mobile every couple of minutes to check if Ros had called or sent a text that he missed.

Finally around midnight, his phone rang. “Hi.” He smiled, picturing her face. Gareth was in his bedroom, his book lying discarded on his lap. He’d been biding his time until then. The subject matter of the book eluded him despite the fact he was perhaps twenty or so pages in.

“...Gareth.” Ros sounded awful. Her voice came out a quiet whimper. “Gareth, can I come over?”

Every protective instinct flared up. “Of course, you don’t need to ask. Are you alright? What’s wrong?”

He listened hard but the silence on the other end of the line revealed nothing.

“I’ll be there in about twenty minutes. I’m coming from the City.”

“I'll wait up. See you soon." He told her, a bit confused when she didn't say anything more.

At last, she took a deep shaky breath that even he could hear. The line went dead and all he could do was wait. He certainly couldn’t focus on his novel now when he thought of a million reasons why Ros would sound so unlike herself. He remembered when she showed up at his and Elaine's old house, determined to defend her actions against his self-righteous anger. That was the last time she’d sounded remotely like she did just now. He heard the sound of a car parking outside by the pavement in front of his flat. Parting the blinds covering his bedroom window, Gareth saw her emerge from a silver convertible that was presumably what Jenny Hunter was supposed to drive. He went to meet her at the door.

The first thing he noticed was her attire. She rarely showed so much skin--this black halter dress left little to the imagination. The progression of his thoughts ceased when he saw her. She looked dazed, kicking off her high heels and walking past him straight up to his bedroom with her overnight bag. Gareth closed and locked the front door before following her.

When he got to the top of the stairs, he heard the sink faucet running. He went to lean against the door frame and watch her as she washed off her makeup. Mascara streaks ran down her cheeks and beneath her eyes and she rubbed them away with harsh impatience. When her skin was clean, she took out her toothbrush and gave her teeth a quick brush and rinse as she always did. She smoothed down her short blonde locks as a last touch.

After the frenetic ritual was over, Ros went stock-still. She leaned on her hands on the counter and stared at her reflection in the mirror, all haunted eyes and pale skin. Gareth didn’t move from his place. The waiting game was key with her, he learnt that if nothing else.

“I’ve been made. Alexis Meynell knows I work for MI-5, and that I'm not an accountant. He identified my colleague who was posing as Jenny Hunter’s boyfriend first and then made the logical conclusion. He invited me to his hotel room after the benefit, we had a loaded discussion about capitalism and its flaws, and then he got a call from his employee.”

“Ros.” Gareth held his hand out, which she took into her own. She was freezing cold from the sink water. Her thin dress wasn’t helping either. He wanted to wrap a robe around her, but he stayed exactly where he was.

“Anyway, he...he confronted me and I didn't deny it. To do so would've really set him off. Meynell needed to know he could trust me. The Treasury, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, and Highland Life Bank are all relying on my ability to provide intel on Meynell’s scheme to play the market.”

Gareth knew the bare minimum about the operation but he could follow. “I heard Highland Life will be hung out to dry as soon as tomorrow if the Chancellor doesn’t agree to another bailout for the bank.”

“Yeah. I had to convince Meynell that the Chancellor will reneg on her promise and to bet against Highland Life’s position. Now that my cover’s irrelevant, the game's changed. I got him to trust my motivation to betray the British state and use me as his mole in the government.”

“Meynell Holdings will make a killing if his scheme works.” Gareth remarked. The prospect was frightening, another deep recession would cripple the UK.

“That’s just it. The Chancellor will do the opposite tomorrow. Meynell will be bankrupted. One of the world's richest financiers--ruined.”

“How did you persuade him?” Gareth suddenly twigged. “You--you went to his hotel room. You came from there, that’s where you just came from.”

Ros winced. “He was either going to kiss me or kill me so I decided to make him think I wanted him. Blinding rage and ardent desire are two sides of the same coin, it was easy to tip him from one to the other. I made the call based on my intuition. I'll have to turn up to Meynell Holdings tomorrow and see if my gamble pays off."

Her words cut deeper than he ever would have expected. “Did he...did you...?" Gareth couldn't finish his question for fear of the answer.

Ros shook her head. “No we didn't. I dropped a hallucinogenic drug into his champagne when he wasn't looking. Liquid ecstasy. It knocked him out cold for about half an hour and when he woke up, he was completely suggestible. I made him think I had sex with him and that he trusted me enough to bet against Highland Life. I didn’t sleep with him, Gareth. But I very nearly did.”

He let out the breath he’d been holding and pulled her into an awkward one-armed embrace.

“Thank god for the drugs because I swear I’d have sooner beat him unconscious rather than go through with it. I couldn’t do that, not even if it meant the British economy will go up in flames.” She rested her chin on his shoulder as she leaned into him.

This aspect of her job was one he'd been aware of subconsciously but one that they had yet to address. Gareth took his time to compose his thoughts. He knew her integrity and self respect were beyond reproach. She learnt from her past mistakes and matured accordingly, which he very much admired. Ros was powerful in her own right but he understood her occasional need for validation. He was humbled she chose to come to him in so vulnerable a state of mind. It was an enormous sign of progress for Ros to open up instead of retreating behind her self-imposed barriers. This made it so much more crucial that he get his response just right.

"Ros, I want you to know that I trust your operational judgment. I'm glad you were able to find an alternative measure with Meynell but in the future, I realise there will be other cases that might not allow for alternatives. Forgive me if this comes off as condescending or uncouth but your person is yours to do with as you please. Not that you need me or any man, or woman for that matter, to tell you that--"

Ros cut him off, hazel eyes turned up toward him. "Sometimes you sound as though you've been plucked from a different age. A displaced Edwardian gentleman." The dismay began to leave her face. She found his babbling attempt to console her funny rather than offensive, to his relief and inward self deprecation. Ros sobered a little then and added, "My dignity at present is a bit worse for wear and the thought of going back to a safehouse alone was intolerable."

Gareth kissed Ros on her forehead and then looked down at her. “I'm pleased you're here. I regret how much stress has been heaped on you, on a day like your birthday."

She gasped. “Oh my god.”

“Did you forget it's your birthday?” He watched as she ran a hand over her face and covered her shy grin.

“No, I didn’t. I did forget to thank you for the books. I got them this morning before leaving for the office. They’re perfect, Gareth. I've loved Akhmatova since I was sixteen and took up Russian.” She pecked his lips softly. “Thank you. For everything. For having me, wreck that I am."

"Stop right there. If we both try to enumerate the ways we're more of a wreck than the other, I suspect we'll be here all night." 

"Fine." Her surrender was punctuated by a long yawn.

"Let's go to bed, I'm shattered and you need to rest."

Ros prevailed against Meynell the next day, if the Chancellor’s issued statement on the news about Highland Life’s sound finances was any sign to go by. Gareth watched from his television in his office, glad that MI-5 achieved its desired outcome. The market suffered some initial volatility but the Highland Life share price recovered dramatically. People's mortgages and life savings wouldn't disappear in a Depression-like collapse as the market analysts feared.

"Oh bad luck," Moneypenny joked as she handed him some reports, "I looked forward to returning to barter and trade. I think I'd be quite good at it." Gareth snorted at the image. "I don't doubt it." He replied without looking, though he knew she wore a saucy grin as she went on to banter with Tanner about what he'd trade away his beloved automatic stapler for.

The following evening was spent at his again even though Ros’s stint as Jenny Hunter was over. He thought to give her space to decompress after such a hard assignment. The ISC report from MI-5 detailing the operation graced his desk that day. He hadn’t realised Ros went back with Meynell to his hotel sans backup or that she’d been held at gunpoint by a member of the Russian mafia in some kind of test set by Meynell. The man was both megalomaniac and Marxist-in-disguise; irony of ironies.Through quick thinking and exploiting Meynell’s weakness for her, Ros was able to overpower her captor as Meynell switched his financial position. The man brought about his own downfall because Ros asked him to. The previous MI-5 informant sent in before Ros ended up dead in the Thames after being discovered. She could’ve met the very same fate had she been any less capable.

She was in a tetchy mood when she arrived, ignoring him until after she had a hot shower and dinner--Indian takeaway that he’d picked up on the way home. He’d discovered that the best way to combat her bad moods was to leave her be and ensure copious amounts of good food were available. The financial segment of the news was on when she came downstairs at last, in casual clothing with a book in hand. It was a profile on Alexis Meynell and his unbelievably swift fall into bankruptcy. Gareth had eaten his fill of curry and samosas while watching it until Ros flopped onto the couch.

“Please for the love of all things sacred, turn that off.” She growled, icy eyes taking in the footage of Meynell leaving his office amidst a barrage of screaming reporters. Gareth pursed his lips and switched it off as she asked.

“I’m not going to fight you for the remote.” He announced and set it in the space between them. He also handed her a plastic container of rice and curry along with a packet of utensils, in exchange for her Akhmatova book in case she spilt food. She breathed in the spicy aroma as soon as she lifted the lid off and exhaled some of the tension away.

“Some operatives drown their sorrows in drink,” She muttered, “Give me curry instead any day.”

Gareth couldn’t hold back a laugh. This was why he didn’t take her bad moods personally. If only the world’s problems could be solved in such an easy manner. She tucked in while he perused the poetry volume. If he remembered correctly, this was the _Poema bez geroia_ along with other featured works, the smaller of the two books he’d gifted her. He didn’t understand most of it but he appreciated the painstaking artistry. Each page was carefully printed and the edges were decorated by intricate, twining vines.

Ros had finished her meal and was observing him when he looked up.

“I came across _Requiem_ when I was a first year undergraduate at Cambridge. I’d been so moved by it, I read past the required excerpt for the class and racked up an impressive amount of late fees from the library.” Her expression softened, the remnants of her stressful day were chased away by pleasant memories. "The Soviets wanted to wipe out all evidence of Akhmatova's writing. She was very brave to continue writing as everyone she loved was either killed, jailed or fled."

“I confess I had a look at your bookshelves for inspiration.” Gareth ran his fingers along the edges of the pages. “Do you have a favourite?”

He gave her back the book and she flipped several pages into it. Ros began to read from the book, the language rolling off her tongue. He was fascinated by her intonation, her accent seeming flawless to his untrained ear. The result of a lifetime of study and application.

“And now for my translation,” She said, switching back to English. “My heart beats smoothly, steadily, What are long years to me? Under the Galernaya arch, our shadows, for eternity.”

He found himself quite speechless. He didn’t think she’d have even a passing interest in romanticism, from the way Moneypenny described _Requiem,_ Gareth didn’t think the language would be so evocative. He looked at her, her shining eyes, bruised cheek, wet hair. 

“Beautiful.” Gareth whispered. For once, Ros made no comment about sappiness or being cheesy. She smiled, and let it go.

In his brief downtime, Gareth took out a small box covered in red velvet wrapping and opened it. His mother’s engagement ring was inside. It shone brightly, the long years of disuse and storage didn't detract from the brilliance of the modest sized diamond and white gold setting. He retrieved it from his safe when Ros left for Thames House the following morning. Gareth studied it, recalling how Elaine reacted when he presented it to her and promptly asked if they could choose a more modern design. Gareth closed the box with great care and put it back in his desk draw.

The practise of intelligence did not occur in a vacuum, but it would be wrong to let it stall life plans. If the moment presented itself, Gareth would not refrain from posing a certain question to Rosalind Myers.

* * *

The funeral of Olivia Mansfield turned out to be a small, private one, considering how many senior British government officials were present. Her children were there--a son and daughter who looked as though they were just a few years younger than Gareth. James Bond was present too, sombre and reticent. Moneypenny, Tanner, and Q stood near Bond. Gareth knew they comprised M's most trusted team and didn't begrudge them that. M’s son delivered the eulogy which included more poetry in the style of their late father. Gareth paid his respects and left shortly thereafter as he was due back in Westminster for a series of meetings, the most important one with the Foreign Secretary Ruth Chambers. MI-6 was in need of direction and the time to appoint someone was drawing near.

Gareth was not so arrogant as to assume he’d be an automatic addition to the PM’s shortlist. However, as he was overseeing the late M’s transition into retirement, he anticipated he’d assume command in the interim for coherence's sake. He took care in his personal appearance, mindful of his arm sling. That his black suit should minimise attention to his injury as it was the same colour as the sling.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Mallory.” The Foreign Secretary firmly shook his hand. “That was a beautiful ceremony, wasn’t it?” She'd been in attendance also, though Gareth hadn't spoken to her there.

“Yes, I’d say so. I hadn’t expected her son to sound so much like her.” Gareth said wryly. Chambers laughed in quiet agreement. She rested her arms on her desk and folded her hands primly together, then cleared her throat.

“Given what’s happened, I think it’s abundantly clear why we need to have this discussion so soon.”

Gareth nodded. “Has the PM decided how he wishes to proceed?”

“I supported the idea of appointing you to the position straight away...at first.” Chambers looked conflicted. “Something came to my immediate attention the other day, from one of your colleagues whom I shan’t name, which has cast a negative light on your candidacy. This information leaves me hesitant to recommend your potential appointment.”

“May I inquire as to the charges against my candidacy?” Gareth knew he was frowning and tried to arrange his features into a less threatening expression. His hands gripped the edges of his chair, a manifestation of his foreboding. Of all the things he expected out of this meeting, a bollocking wasn't one of them.

Chambers pushed forward a black folder and opened it to reveal a series of photographs. Next to it was the very same personnel file he referenced to find out Ros's birth date. Gareth stared, stone-faced. They were not surveillance grade photographs so the resolution wasn’t the clearest. They looked like they could have been taken by paparazzi, cover photos for trashy tabloids.

"It's not anyone's business what you do in your personal life and it's not my intent to patronise you. Your background as an officer in the Hereford Regiment and special forces is unquestioned. You’ve been a phenomenal chairman these past several years, Mallory. However with all the recent negative attention on the Security Services...you understand why the PM will have reservations. The British people need to be able to trust their government, particularly those responsible for the defence of the realm. Whoever the next chief is, they have to be as much of a cleanskin as possible."

He only just managed to stop himself from facetiously wishing her luck in finding one of those in Parliament. The implications for Gareth’s character and professional reputation didn’t perturb him so much as the principle of the thing. They did nothing wrong, they were doing _absolutely_ nothing wrong. Whoever ordered the pictures to be taken and delivered to the Cabinet office was launching a blatant defamatory attack on both him and Ros.

"It's not an extramarital affair, Minister. This is a ploy to blackmail me. Neither of us were attached when it began." Gareth felt cheap discussing Ros in such terms. As if, despite all his compartmentalisation, he failed Ros by treating their relationship like something tawdry.

"But it's never what it is, is it? What gets us in trouble is what it looks like. And without context, this looks like the Chairman of the Intelligence and Security committee is inappropriately involved with a senior MI-5 officer. It looks like a blatant conflict of interest that could result in abuse of power." She pointed out, not unkindly. "Rosalind Myers is a longtime intelligence officer with an outstanding CV yet you have to admit some of her past actions suggest she has an appetite for betrayal. All it would take is a salacious article in the media to unmake your ISC legacy and to ruin her credibility. She'll never work again in this country if that happened."

"Am I off the shortlist completely?" Gareth asked abruptly. What the Foreign Secretary said was the bitter truth. He continued to stare at the photo on top. Ros was clearly identifiable, walking toward the mysterious photographer but unaware of the scrutiny. They were returning home from a quick trip to Tesco's near her house when the picture was taken. Gareth was close behind her with the grocery bag in hand. The looks on both their faces suggested a deep seated contentment. It was a relaxed, happy moment and now, one forever ruined by this act. Gareth clenched his jaw, he was ashamed he thought they could gallivant around without serious repercussions. 

"Minister, regardless of how this looks, you and the PM should know that it was neither my nor Ms. Myers's intent to bring negative attention to the Services." He ground out. "Whatever you ask of me, I will comply--whether it’s disqualification from the shortlist or even full resignation from my position. My only condition is that her name and identity are kept confidential. I will _not_ have her subjected to any degree of slander."

The Foreign Secretary sighed. "We haven't removed you from the list. I wanted to hear your perspective before speaking with the PM so I may put forth a balanced recommendation. As for Ms. Myers, you have my word that the leak of her identity will not come from this office. I think we've all had rather enough of leaks in the recent past, don't you?"

"Thank you for that, Minister."

"For now you will continue supervising the transition. I summoned you here out of courtesy so you'd know that this is one of many factors we're taking into consideration before we reach a decision."

It went without saying that it was imperative they make an appointment soon. Gareth met the Foreign Secretary’s gaze, doing his best to mask the anger and suspicion burning within. “Minister, I understand why you did not wish to reveal who did this, but I need to know who gave you this information. I want to know the name of my accuser."

She glanced down at the photos, considering whether to respond. Utter humiliation clashed with his compulsion to learn who woke up one day and decided to start slinging mud. He didn't care for the informal dressing down, but a low blow like this had downright stoked his ire.

“John Winslow. He approached the Home Secretary as well, it seems. Do what you will, though I trust you know that retaliation will do very little for your predicament.”

Gareth remained impassive, holding in a storm of blistering rage he wanted nothing more than to unleash on Winslow. He should have bloody well known the man would resort to these tricks in hopes of securing a promotion he didn’t earn. Winslow was far from qualified to chair the ISC much less assume leadership of the country’s formidable intelligence-gathering organisation. The Foreign Secretary stood and closed the folder, handed the pictures to him without any qualms. Ros's dossier remained on the desk.

“Keep those. They’ll be safest in your possession.” She said. “You may expect to hear from my office in the coming days, after I’ve briefed the PM.”

“Thank you, Foreign Secretary. I’ll see myself out.” 

Chairman Mallory strode through the government offices, radiating a brand of pure contempt so seldom witnessed in him that everyone he passed in the corridors gave him a very wide berth. John Winslow would be in his personal office at this time of day. Heaven forfend anyone who tried to come between the former Lieutenant Colonel and his target.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably add that my portrayal of Mallory is heavily influenced by Ralph Fiennes's performances in The Constant Gardener and The English Patient in addition to the Bond movies.
> 
> Please leave feedback if you can! :)


	15. Chapter Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mallory faces an impossible choice. Time waits for no one and Ros has plans of her own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have one word for this chapter: DRAMA! So very fun to write. I like putting characters through the wringer to see what they're made of but don't give up on Mallory and Ros just yet. Guest appearance by Spooks character Lucas North! For Bond readers, all you need to know about Lucas is that he's a seasoned MI-5 spy. Feel free to imagine John Winslow as your standard toady bureaucrat.

_“Somewhere there is a simple life..._

_But we live ceremoniously and with difficulty_  

_And we observe the rites of our bitter meetings,_

_When_ _suddenly the reckless wind breaks_ _off a sentence just begun -”_

  
-Anna Akhmatova

* * *

Lucas North was at his desk on the Grid in Thames House when he noticed something was amiss. Up til then, it was a relatively normal day in MI-5’s counterterrorism department. He was tasked with surveillance of certain MP offices in the House of Commons preceding the general elections. It was a minimal operation intended to keep tabs on campaigns of interest to the service. He was on the first shift, having drawn the proverbial short straw of all his Section D colleagues. The next several hours were to be dedicated to the mundane goings-on of otherwise regular offices.

Of course, Lucas was a jack-of-all-trades when it came to professional espionage. While monitoring surveillance feeds ranked low on the desired assignments amongst spies, he didn’t mind all that much. There was always something to observe even in innocent conversation between employees. Perhaps one of the MPs would let something slip. Between his dual monitors, Lucas could toggle between four different offices and still enjoy his massive coffee. Despite his optimism, Lucas sank into his chair and resigned himself to the tedium. Harry expected to be briefed at the end of the day and Lucas preferred not to be on the receiving end of a tirade for inattention.

Lucas started slightly when the door to the Rt. Honourable John Winslow’s office burst open. He leaned in toward his computer screen and adjusted his headset to better listen in. Malcolm, his colleague who personally oversaw the bugging of the offices, had outdone himself with the audio quality.

The interloper brushed past the few staffers at work in the front office. The man looked very familiar but Lucas was more focused on how the staffers leapt out of his way with an odd sort of deference. Lucas quickly switched his camera view to the inside of the MP office. The camera placement allowed him to see both men in profile.

“You have an _unbelievable_ amount of cheek.” The man who’d barged in looked ready to draw blood. John Winslow put down whatever paperwork he was working on, miraculously unfazed. False bravado was his middle name, apparently.

“What on earth are you on about, Mallory? Have a seat and we’ll talk like civilised gentlemen--”

Realisation dawned on Lucas. It was Chairman Gareth Mallory from the ISC. No wonder he looked so familiar, this was the man Harry had to report to every month to deliver operational updates for the section.

“Any chance for that is well and truly over. I want to know why you did it and what you intend to gain.” Mallory remained on his feet, his domineering stance lent him a threatening aura that immediately set the tone for the interaction. Lucas watched Winslow. The other man was smaller in both stature and Parliamentary rank. Why was Mallory so hacked off?

“I should think the answer is obvious.”

“The ink spelling your name is barely dry on your office stationery and you have the gall to blackmail me for my position?” Mallory seemed to lose control of his anger. Lucas watched him ball his hands into fists at his sides. The possibility of the two MPs diving into a fistfight didn’t seem all that ludicrous.

“Blackmail is too strong a word, I think. All I did was make a slight...suggestion to the Home and Foreign Secretaries. The information is theirs to do with as they see fit with regard to their next choice for M. Now it’s within _your_ power to make the best decision for yourself and your little paramour. What’s her name? Rosalind Myers?” It was impossible not to hear the gloating in Winslow’s voice.

Lucas’s jaw dropped. The woman in question was sat at the desk just across from him, engaged in some other project. He momentarily took his eyes off his computer screen to look at her in shock. Ros was involved with the chairman of the Intelligence and Security Parliamentary Committee? Lucas jerked his eyes back to his computer when Ros noticed him staring.

“I don’t care what happens to me.” Mallory growled. “If you break her cover in the press, I’ll see to it that you’re never appointed as chairman of the ISC.”

“Begging on her behalf? How...charming. Listen old chap, my terms are simple. You will step down after the general election without fuss, and you will vouch for my candidacy to the Cabinet. To the PM himself if it comes down to it.”

Even Lucas cringed. He didn’t wholly understand the context, just that Winslow must’ve had substantial leverage to make such brazen demands to a senior colleague.

“There are channels for these things, John. Promotions are meant to be earned.” Mallory’s voice was low and angry but the mics had no problem picking it up.

“This committee can’t afford a second more of your gormless leadership. It needs a leader, it needs a sharper vision to prevent what happened with Silva from happening again!”

“Rome wasn’t built in a day. Neither will you be able to master the complexity of the intelligence world overnight. Do you honestly think you should chair a body responsible for some of the most critical intelligence regulations when you can’t distinguish Hezbollah from Hamas, or locate the Palestinian territories on a map?”

Winslow glowered. Lucas could tell the insult hit a raw nerve. “I’m sure you’ve worked out that breaking her cover is one of a great many things I could do to ruin both you and Myers. Taking a picture of someone is not a crime.” Winslow leaned into his wingback chair and smirked. “We’ll call it an occupational hazard. I say, you both made it so easy, to find evidence of your not-so-clandestine affair.”

Had it been an altercation between two blokes on the street, Lucas knew Mallory would have beaten Winslow to a bloody pulp by now. As it was, Mallory seethed quietly where he stood. The man had had enough, it seemed.

“If that’s all you require, by all means, the job is yours. May it be everything you want it to be.” His words were thick with the bitterness of one defeated. Mallory turned on his heel like the soldier he once was and left. The chairman was always one for protocol and order. Hierarchy and stability. That he was offended by Winslow leap-frogging his way to a high position was understandable.

Lucas noticed his pulse was racing as he tore off his headset. He did a quick once-over of the other offices on his screens before running a hand through his hair. There was no way he could sit on this. Withholding this unusual exchange from Ros would spell trouble he would much rather avoid. Minimise, at least. He would leave it to Ros to tell Harry, she deserved that much dignity at least. The penalties of an undisclosed relationship were severe for an officer of Ros’s calibre, much more so for a personal relationship with so many inherent ethical red flags.

Lucas got up and approached her, trying to keep his expression from hinting at his churning thoughts.

“I need to speak with you.” He murmured, looking her in the eye. The two of them got on decently. It was a good thing he witnessed the exchange rather than their other more gossip-prone colleagues.

Ros frowned. “What is it?”

Lucas sucked in a breath and blew it out heavily. “Not here. In private.”

The activity of the Grid continued unimpeded as the two senior operatives went into the dimly lit corridor just outside it.

“You know the feed we have coming from the House of Commons? There’s sensitive footage that you should see. We can isolate it without Malcolm knowing.”

“Lucas.” She crossed her arms over her crisp white shirt. “Just tell me.”

“It’s about Gareth Mallory.”

* * *

The glowing lights along the embankment reflected beautifully off the water. Gareth found Ros leaning against the stone wall, staring morosely at the London Eye. The Houses of Parliament towered behind them: a terribly appropriate backdrop on this warm spring evening. Ros insisted he meet her here, of all places. It was far more exposed than he preferred, though there weren’t many people around.

She spoke without looking at him. “Imagine my surprise when I hear Gareth Mallory is the PM’s rumoured first choice for M. I heard and saw everything on surveillance footage so don’t play the fool.”

He froze. Of all the mistakes and rows he’d had that day, this was the one he absolutely had to atone for.

“I didn't think Chambers would recommend me,” He started motioning with his hands, a nervous habit he usually suppressed. It was why he tended to stick his hands in his pockets; to stop himself. “Ros.” His voice rose in pitch, pleading for her to look at him. “Say something, please.”

“I have nothing to say.” Her eyes, so expressive most of the time, were shuttered.

“I have everything to say! If you would just wait and _listen_ ,” Seeing Ros disengage inspired a sort of Pavlovian compulsion to chase after her. “John Winslow threatened to out you to the press.”

Ros gripped her chin between her thumb and index finger, trapped in thought. “Naturally, you rushed to my defence. Well thanks for that. It may interest you to know that a current op might entail overseas relocation.” Her voice was deceptive in its smoothness. A placid surface hiding the undercurrent beneath.

He stared at her, anguished by the possibility. “You’re angry, Ros, God knows I deserve it.”

“There is an actual need for an operative with my regional awareness. Don’t think this is some kind of juvenile stab at retribution.”

“I don't want you to leave.”

“Well, why the hell should I stay?” Her mask began to fall as her fury seeped through. “Now, you listen. Do you have any concept of how it feels to inform your superior why you're mentioned _by name_ by the subject you’re supposed to be observing? Do you imagine Harry was chuffed to learn one of his officers is the ISC chairman’s bit on the side?”

“You know damn well that’s not what you are!” He hissed.

“It’s not even the fact that my identity is at risk. It’s that you let Winslow sabotage your promotion in spite of the thousands of means at your disposal through the Security Services, I mean--you didn't even try to hit back!”

“Losing you over something so trivial as a nominal appointment isn't worth it and running roughshod over the law to fight back against Winslow's character attack rather defeats the purpose.” He placed his hand on her arm and she faced him, outraged.

“Oh don’t be insulting, this isn’t a romance novel! You have your ambition. I have mine. It’s always been that way and always will be. How could you just let Winslow step all over you?”

"Ros, our work is not the sum of all our parts." He didn't move away, just traced a slow pattern with his thumb over her arm. The starched cotton of her shirt felt smooth to the touch. The sensation distracted him, as did that of her warm skin beneath the sleeve.

"Isn't it though?" She snapped. "Was it like this with Elaine? Did you ask her to stay too? Professional aspiration versus personal fulfilment. How nauseating."

That one hurt. He took a moment to catch his breath. They were caught in an impasse, both stricken with the feeling of impending loss.

"No. I didn't." Gareth conceded. Ros blinked. She seemed contrite as she avoided looking at him directly.

“You said it yourself once. I'm too invested in this job to live a normal life, whatever the hell 'normal' means these days.” Ros stared at the river like it had all the answers.

Now he was the one with nothing to say. Because she was right. He tamped down on rising emotions by clinging to logic.

"If I accept the appointment, you’ll take the overseas post. If I give it up, I’ll continue as ISC chairman and you’ll carry on at Thames House at which point Winslow will make his allegations public.”

Both scenarios entailed their separation. Ros’s face was so reserved that he knew she was fighting to keep her composure. In closing off, she revealed everything. Only after years of observation did he have the luxury of understanding that about her. She was a force to be reckoned with, and circumstances he contributed to caused her untold pain. He knew the decision she’d take without her needing to say it aloud.

In a moment of quiet desperation, Gareth pulled Ros into a kiss. Her hands slipped beneath his suit jacket, searing him despite the layers of his waistcoat and shirt. She tasted of finality, of farewell. It compelled him to cling more tightly as they broke apart and rested their foreheads together. He closed his eyes and listened to her breathing.

"Where will you go?" He whispered.

"...I don't want to lie to you."

A tourist boat drifted noisily past and they both turned to see a few people on the deck cheekily wave. To them, Gareth and Ros were just two people in a lovers' embrace. They waited until the boat progressed further, until it was too far for their impromptu audience to see them. In the end, she was the one who stepped back first and severed their contact. Her eyes were full of everything she couldn't say. Gareth watched her leave. He waited for the sound of her heels on the pavement to taper off. She was no longer in his line of sight when he finally snapped out of his trance.

Gareth stood alone on the embankment a little while longer before turning to leave in the opposite direction. He couldn't grasp how thoroughly his life had imploded in a single day. Somehow he felt numb to it all. The extent of trauma delayed the latent pain he knew was coming. His grief prompted the memory of what Olivia Mansfield told him during one of their last meetings before her murder. It felt like ages passed since her funeral that same morning.

_She knows how to survive; with or without you._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to cite Josephine Hart for that final quote about damaged people. That's purely her genius, I take no credit and am only borrowing.


	16. Chapter Fifteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moneypenny puts her skills as an MI-6 agent to use, for the greater good. Mallory isn't adjusting well after Ros has left, but he'll soon have other things to worry about as we begin to move from Skyfall to Spectre.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't realize how much time had passed since my last update! I hope you enjoy this one. Moneypenny is such a joy to write and I adore Naomie Harris, so she's featured prominently this chapter. Home Secretary Andrew Lawrence and Foreign Secretary Ruth Chambers are characters from Spooks. I thought it would be fun to tie in Max Denbigh and explore his origins a little more since we're given so little in Spectre. If you'd like, please leave a comment after reading ;)

_ _

_“In the hands of politicians grand designs achieve nothing but new forms of the old misery...”_  

― John le Carré

* * *

There were certain indisputable facts in life. The sky was blue, the earth round, and Gareth Mallory was a proud man. It was also a fact that his trust in Eve Moneypenny was hard-earned. He overcame his wariness of her, Bill Tanner, and Q as he grew into his role as interim chief of MI-6. It was clear that he was the best person for the job and Moneypenny felt vehemently that no slimy son of a bitch should deprive him of it. The plan to ensure Mallory’s promotion took a little time and tradecraft but with Q’s input, she managed it perfectly.

Getting the man to admit that there was a problem with his candidacy was no small feat. Eventually, she and Tanner were able to put the pieces together. The man seemed resigned to his fate. Worse than that, he didn’t have any contingency plan or the motivation to devise one. He was utterly dejected. Moneypenny saw him after his initial meeting with the Foreign Secretary, his temper was more volatile than she ever witnessed though he refrained from taking it out on her. She would have preferred that side of Mallory to the ashen-faced wraith that he was deteriorating into.

She also heard through the grapevine populated by the hordes of personal assistants that her boss caused a scene in John Winslow’s personal office on that very same day. Winslow was the MP on the ISC that Moneypenny warned Mallory about. She was disappointed to have been proven correct in her intuition. During her spare time in the work day, Moneypenny went up to the rooftop with only her mobile and her determination to make things right.

The view from the top of the building was all the more stunning for the clear skies and mild weather. Moneypenny was briefly distracted by the sunlight on her skin. She found she was glad she chose her powder blue Armani dress that showed off her arms and a respectable amount of leg. After allowing herself a few more minutes of basking in late April’s warmth, she placed a call to Q-Branch.

“How are things down in the bunker? You really should step outside, it’s a perfect day to reverse that vitamin D deficit. Anyway, I wondered if you could do me a small favour. Q, this is serious.”

She leant on the railing and stared out at the London cityscape as Q expressed his reservations about whatever it was she wanted him to do.

“I know it’s unsanctioned...But the man who should be doing the sanctioning happens to be stuck in a bureaucratic sinkhole that we’ve got to help him out of. The service can’t afford much more of this limbo before the lack of _sound_ leadership translates into a national security meltdown. Now, will you help me or not?”

She grinned when Q agreed. Hell hath no fury like an MI-6 operative defending a boss she respected.

“Right, I need you to pull the internal dossiers of everyone who works for John Winslow.” She lowered her voice further. “Yes, the MP. I’ll explain later. For now, just give me everything you have on his staff. Contact information, daily habits, etcetera. Thank you, love.”

Armed with that information, Moneypenny went home and studied it all with a critical eye. Alissa Dunkel was a charming, twenty four year old recent uni graduate who was the newest employee in Winslow’s office. She was the junior assistant in charge of her boss’s London schedule and other administrative tasks. She was also a very sensitive individual who lacked the sort of thick skin required to work for a politician as nasty as Winslow.

He bullied her into tears on a weekly basis and she was seeing a shrink for it, judging from what Q dug up. Moneypenny knew Alissa Dunkel could be useful in enacting her plan. She called Alissa’s direct office extension and introduced herself honestly. Moneypenny apologised for Mallory barging into Winslow’s office unannounced and for whatever fallout Alissa had been forced to deal with afterward.

The girl appreciated the gesture and even agreed to a consolation coffee date. Moneypenny presented herself as a sort of mentor figure who could nurture Alissa rather than berate her as her boss and colleagues did. Moneypenny didn’t feel guilty about exploiting the girl--she really was happy to teach the girl the basics of being a personal assistant in return for the access and insights the girl could provide into John Winslow’s agenda.

It took about two weeks of carefully choreographed meetings, coffee breaks and gym classes (under no other circumstances would Moneypenny be caught dead in a trendy fitness studio), before her efforts finally paid off. Alissa asked for Moneypenny’s help with bookkeeping, specifically with completing voucher paperwork and reimbursement forms.

Moneypenny had free run of John Winslow’s MP financial accounts but she had to be cautious about displaying too much enthusiasm.

“It just seems like I can never balance the budget--there’s always just a little bit missing. I don’t think it’s an error on my part.” Alissa whinged. Eve made sure to look appropriately sympathetic as she took a look at the papers laid out before them. Several moments went by while she reviewed the past few months’ worth of office expenses. Suddenly, Moneypenny realised what the problem was. She tamped down her triumph as she rested her chin in her hand and continued to peruse the statements.

“I believe you may need to double check with your staff regarding transportation vouchers. There are quite a few reimbursements that should be verified.” Moneypenny gathered up the papers and arranged them in a neat pile. Alissa smiled gratefully and took them from her to tuck into her handbag.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you, Eve.” The girl packed up and flounced out of the Starbucks as only twentysomethings tended to do. Moneypenny watched her through the tall storefront window. Alissa was a sweet girl, still blissfully ignorant of the amount of backstabbing and viciousness that was rampant in Parliament. She would make sure the girl’s professional aspirations went unharmed by what was to come.

It took a tad longer than Moneypenny predicted--four days to be exact. Mallory was in a joint meeting with Alistair and Tanner when her office phone trilled, prompting her to check the caller ID. She recognised the extension--it was coming from Winslow’s office. Moneypenny’s eyes took on a speculative gleam. The pieces were in place, like dominoes stacked in a winding pattern. She hoped this was the final little push.

_“Listen, Eve--do you have a minute? I think...I think I’ve done something terrible!”_

“Alissa, how are you?” Moneypenny pressed the receiver to her ear and twirled the cord between her fingers. Calm, friendly, like an older sister. It was exactly what Alissa needed to hear. She listened to the girl’s hushed tones, noting the obvious panic. Alissa discovered that the discrepancies in the office expenses were caused by falsely reported reimbursements. Winslow’s chief of staff and senior advisors had systematically reimbursed themselves for trips they’d never taken. Alissa reported their mishandling of taxpayer money to the Parliamentary Committee on Standards. It was only a matter of time before the inspectors came round.

After reassuring Alissa that nothing would happen to her and penalties would be meted out to the appropriate people, Moneypenny ended the call with a genuine promise to treat the girl to another coffee. She hung up her office phone with a satisfying click and fought the urge to jump up into a happy dance. There was no way Winslow could function without half his senior staff, and the Committee on Standards was sure to suspend them from working whilst being investigated for fraud.

Thus far, Moneypenny kept her plan to herself. Only now did she dare bring up Winslow’s unfortunate situation during an offhand conversation with Tanner, knowing that Mallory could hear every word she spoke from the outer office.

“The bigger they think they are, the harder they fall.” Tanner mused. There was no way he didn’t know Moneypenny had something up her sleeve. He sat back into his desk chair and looked surprised when he checked his email. He clicked on something and frowned as he read. Moneypenny watched him do a double take and stifled a laugh.

“Per the Parliamentary Committee on Standards, a reminder that MP financial accounts are funded by taxpayer money and any proven misuse will result in swift and immediate disciplinary action…” Tanner read aloud in a quiet voice. He met her eyes, and that’s when he knew. “Hell’s bells, Eve.”

“I think my gran used to say ‘hell’s bells.”

“Sod off. Was this you?”

She bristled. “Not directly. I’m not that much of a bloody amateur.”

Tanner turned back to his computer and she saw his eyes get wider, if that were possible.

“I just got an email from the Home Office.” Tanner whispered faintly. “We’re to expect a meeting request from the Home Secretary.”

Eve smiled, knowing it was a fearsome thing to behold. Her extracurricular work hadn’t been for nothing.

* * *

" _Sir? Are you on the line?”_

Eve Moneypenny’s voice registered a moment later when Gareth snapped out of his thoughts. He scolded himself for letting his mind wander. The television in his kitchen provided a dull roar in the background and the coffee he’d brewed cooled in his plain mug. The taste was cringeworthy as he’d gotten the ratios wrong.

“Yes, I’m here. I apologise...It’s been...one of those mornings.”

_“The Home Office called. The Home Secretary wants to meet you.”_

Gareth frowned. “Nicholas Blake?”

 _“No.”_ Moneypenny paused for a second. He suspected she was taking great pains not to sound like the long-suffering assistant. _“The new Home Secretary is Andrew Lawrence. He’s a rising star--only thirty six years old and he just inherited one of the great offices of state.”_

“Begs the question what he’d want with me.” His tone was a touch darker than he meant it to be.

_“Nicholas Blake undoubtedly marked you as a key ally. It’s what any decent Home Secretary would do for his successor.”_

Gareth snorted into his phone. He shut his eyes and pressed his hand against his eyelids. Moneypenny was just doing her job, she didn’t deserve to be subjected to his bleak mood.

“Of course. Please see what can be arranged between his and my diary.”

_“Shall I enquire as to the content of the meeting?”_

“No, that’s quite alright. It will likely be a courtesy call. I’ll be in later this morning. Thank you, Miss Moneypenny.”

Gareth ended the call and put his mobile on the counter. He stared vacantly at the television. Though it was the BBC news analysis of projected votes for the general election, he couldn’t summon a lick of interest. He shut it off and dumped his coffee into the sink, feeling altogether removed from his actions.

The change in power had been abrupt even by Whitehall standards especially so close to a general election. Nicholas Blake stepped down from his position citing declining health, but Gareth suspected there were other forces at play. Andrew Lawrence was a fresh face but no one really knew the man. Already, Lawrence showed no hesitation in reorganising the ranks by clearing out Blake’s staff and replacing them with his own people. One of his key advisors was a particularly irritating man called Max Denbigh, who oversaw all issues relating to defence and intelligence. Foreign Secretary Chambers got on well enough with Lawrence. It made Gareth curious as to what the relationship dynamic was like between them and the PM.

He’d not yet heard anything regarding MI-6 though he continued to serve as interim chief. It was within his capability to bug the Foreign Office to glean any new developments but he refrained from tasking the Quartermaster. Self-inflicted paralysis was what Tanner called it, in a quiet chat with Moneypenny when they thought he was out of earshot. If only they knew the true reason why it was so.

Ros Myers left a gaping absence in his life. One that he was unsure he could patch up. He worked harder than ever which meant he, and by extension his staff, never really went home. Unlike before, Gareth’s aversion to going anywhere near Hampstead Heath was overpowering. He put the spare key into the safe he kept in his study and that was that. Whatever material items he left in the house weren’t anything that couldn’t be replaced--clothing, books, food...It was the memories he wished he could leave behind just as easily.

It was a constant burning pain he kept at bay by filling his mind with work though it often surfaced when he least expected it to. When an interesting case came before the ISC, he’d reflexively make a mental note to ask Ros what she made of it before remembering she was gone. He never realised he got in the habit of thinking as half of a pair again, unlike in the aftermath of his divorce. It was more straightforward with Elaine: the clean severing of two lives, the legal proceedings and the division of monetary and physical assets. If only he could dislodge his heart and do well enough without it.

Gareth knew he looked as haggard as he felt, despite his outwardly pristine image. His navy Savile Row suit shielded him like armour whilst he strode into the government office with his briefcase in hand. Moneypenny and Tanner greeted him with concern he pretended not to see. It was something that neither would ever consciously bring up to his face. They knew of the circumstances delaying his appointment to the position of M by necessity. They also knew how mortifying it was for a stiff upper lip, military type in an authority role to admit to a human failure of that magnitude. Perhaps the years had made him a bit soft. Every sympathetic glance he felt directed at him was motivation enough to pull himself together.

Consequently, the facade was one he relied on. The rest of his subordinates kept a respectful diameter and performed their functions efficiently as he could ask for. Upon arrival, Moneypenny informed him straight away that he had a three o’clock at the Home Office with Andrew Lawrence. There was a bit of awkwardness when Tanner and his longtime political chief of staff, Alistair, both thought they were to accompany him to the Home Office. To avoid confusion, Gareth decided he would go it alone. Yet another reason to seek an end to the ambiguity of his work title.

He was driven to the Home Office in a sleek black Lexus whose windows were tinted a shade so dark it was nearly illegal. His nerves grew with each step he took, past security at the front lobby, to the elevator all the way to the top floor. He was ushered into the inner sanctum without a fuss.

The new Home Secretary was much younger in person than he seemed on television or in print. Andrew Lawrence had a striking brand of vitality about him as he stepped forward to shake Gareth’s hand.

“It is wonderful to meet you, Mr. Mallory. No doubt you’re wondering why you’re here.” Lawrence sounded friendly enough. He didn’t stare at Gareth’s arm sling or comment on his injury. He was slightly taller than Gareth, with a bookish air that hinted more of Oxbridge than Sandhurst. “Allow me to introduce Mr. Max Denbigh, an old school friend of mine and my advisor on defence and intelligence issues.”

Gareth looked at the other man, also young, also more of a scholar than a fighter. They shook hands as well but any further exchange was cut off by the Foreign Secretary’s arrival. Ruth Chambers strode into the office after him with an equally warm greeting and handshake.

They all took their seats and Lawrence sat behind his large oak desk.

“The reason I’ve asked you all to meet me here today is because we must resolve the matter of MI-6’s need for a new leader. I apologise for how long it’s taken, given that I’m a mere month into my tenure, but that’s hardly an excuse. The PM wants our recommendation by the end of today.”

Chambers concurred and added, “I felt it best that Andrew weigh in on this for a more collaborative approach. In light of our last discussion.”

“Max here has been so helpful in navigating this appointment business, especially with identifying suitable candidates for the job.” Lawrence motioned to his advisor, who modestly inclined his head.

“Since becoming aware of circumstances that made a certain candidate unsuitable, we’ve really been able to make a choice that we’re all confident in.” Denbigh wasn’t shy in flaunting his status as the Home Secretary’s favourite. Gareth braced himself for what surely must be a request for his own resignation. Chambers was kind enough to warn him but the reality of it all was far more cruel than he’d imagined.

“I suppose there’s no point in beating around the bush.” Lawrence shrugged. “We’re recommending you as the new M.”

The ensuing silence was replete with disbelief.

“I beg your pardon, sir?” Gareth Mallory croaked. He stared at the others, blindsided by their earnestness. It was enormously difficult to take the offer at face value.

“ _You_ will be appointed as the new head of MI-6, with my full approval and support. Max will take your place as ISC chairman to ensure continuity of operations through the elections.” Andrew Lawrence grinned his school-boy grin. Max Denbigh was smiling too, but there was something hard about his glittering eyes. It seemed John Winslow never stood a chance in gaining the ISC chairmanship. Ruth Chambers shook his hand again in congratulations. Gareth must have said the right things, but he was hardly aware of it as they continued to chat amongst themselves. The car ride back to his soon-to-be vacated government office passed in a blur.

Tanner and Moneypenny looked unreasonably agitated when he finally entered his office and shut the door.

“Well?” Moneypenny breathed.

“I got it.” Gareth said simply.

Tanner emitted a victorious shout and Moneypenny threw her arms into the air. The dam holding back his shock broke, and Gareth laughed as he hadn’t in a very long time. Perhaps his life after Ros could still hold meaning, in service to his queen and country.


End file.
